A Woman's Prerogative
by ShirleyYouJest
Summary: S/B. Sybil reconsiders the "kissing only" rule she set when she accepted Tom's proposal. Explores their newly physical relationship in the months between their failed elopement and reveal to the family. Canon compliant, fills in the blanks... steamily.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: The following is my version of what happened between Sybil _finally _agreeing to run away with Branson and their actually elopement attempt. Lots of people seem to write Sybil (or any woman from this period, for that matter) as a blushing virgin who's frankly rather terrified about the prospect of sex; you'll see that I've taken a bit of a different approach. (Not to the virginity, per se, but to the blushing.) We are, after all, talking about an intelligent, quite fiery 22-year-old woman who has spent some years as a nurse and has been an outspoken advocate for women's rights. I am therefore making some not-unreasonable (IMO) assumptions, a few of which are these: number one, that she is not ignorant about anatomy (hello, nursing training). Number two, that she is more comfortable with the idea of women's sexuality than some women of this period might be (her feminist leanings support this, I think). And number three, that she has been fighting an intense attraction for a certain hunky chauffer for many long years now. "But," you might say, "she _just _told him that he could kiss her and _that is all _the night before!" Well, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. Perhaps dear Sybil had not quite been counting on how much she would enjoy the attentions of the aforementioned hunky chauffer. Anyway, they are not "going all the way" here; my Sybil still has boundaries in mind, but they are less stringent than she might've originally planned. And finally, to paraphrase Granny, "I'm a woman; I can be as contrary as I like." The pot, so to speak, has boiled over, and this is the result. So… here we go! Rated M for a reason, folks.

It had been less than 24 hours since Sybil had appeared in the garage and agreed to run away with him, and Branson was still not entirely convinced that he hadn't merely hallucinated the whole thing. All day he had been in a state of giddy distraction, grinning stupidly to himself, absorbed so thoroughly in his own thoughts that everyone who spoke to him was forced to repeat themself at least once before ever getting a response. She would come to him again as soon as she could, she'd said, and every hour until then was one of fitful restlessness.

Finally, she appeared in the garage, and he flung aside the newspaper he'd been reading – well, _trying _to read. She skirted around behind the little door that opened into the toolshed and dragged him after her, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him deeply, her fingernails nipping at the nape of his neck.

Branson broke away with great effort – she was insistent to continue and he was reluctant to stop – but it was only to say, chest heaving, "We shouldn't do this here."

"You're right," she said, breathlessly, kissing him again.

"My cottage?" he managed to mumble against her lips.

"Yes, alright," she said. "You go first. I'll come after you."

"How long?"

"Ten minutes."

"How about five?" he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and trailing kisses from her lips to her neck.

"Alright, seven," she gasped, gripping his bicep hard enough to hurt.

It was some moments before she found the fortitude to disentangle her hand from his hair and gently push his chest to signal him to stop.

"Alright, alright," he said, resignedly. She couldn't help but laugh at his tone, and reminded him, "You're the one that said we shouldn't do this here, remember?"

"I say lots of stupid things," he said, smiling. He gave her a quick peck and squeezed her hand. "Seven minutes," he said. "Don't be late."

Sybil made it only to four and one-half minutes before she could stand it no longer and set off for the cottage. She walked as slowly as she could force herself to go and determined not to look suspicious in case she was being watched. It wouldn't do to be spied furtively sneaking in; if she were seen, she would have to feign legitimate business. What that lie would be, exactly, she had not quite decided on, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care very much, bothered nearly to the verge of recklessness.

Two brisk knocks on the door and it flew open almost immediately. "You're early," he said, grinning broadly.

"I couldn't wait," she said, rushing in and throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him.

"Five years you waited to answer me," he said against her lips, teasingly, "and now you can't make it five minutes?"

She shook her head. "The dam is burst," she said, smiling. "There's no going back now."

He reached behind her and flicked the lock shut on the door, sliding a little chain into place to prevent even those with keys from entering unbidden – an addition he had made himself and now felt particularly grateful for. "Won't anyone miss you?" he asked.

"I don't think so," she said. "They think I'm in bed with a headache."

"What if they come to check on you?"

"They won't. They're all too busy planning the wedding."

"Little do they know," he said a bit sadly, repressing a twinge of hurt and indignation at the reminder that _they_ could not openly celebrate their own plans for the future.

Sybil, however, was too distracted for melancholy. Branson had long suspected that her fiery personality would translate to wantonness inother areas, but nothing – not even in a thousand feverish imaginings - had quite prepared him for the reality of her lips pulling insistently at his, her mouth opening against him, the hint of her warm, wet tongue slipping softly into his mouth. A little voice in the back of her head warned her that perhaps she was being too bold, too forward, too – _lusty, _but his hands on her hips gripped tightly and his lips against hers in every way met and matched her intensity, and she reminded herself – _he loves me._ Because _I am bold, _because_ I am passionate, _because _I break rules – not in spite of it. _It was a dizzying, empowering thought, and it put her mind at peace.

His hands had migrated of their own accord from her waist to her shoulders, and he was dragging them around her front to cup her breasts before he checked himself, remembering her words from just the night before: "You can kiss me, but that is all until everything is settled."

But then – God help him – she was grabbing his wrists and pressing his palms flat against her chest. "It's alright," she whispered, placing a sucking kiss on his neck.

Branson swallowed hard. "But last night, you said –"

"I say lots of stupid things," she said, and they both laughed, then sobered instantly as he contracted his fingers, squeezing gently. She exhaled sharply and squared her shoulders, arching her back and pressing herself more firmly into his hands.

"Sybil," he said softly, feeling somewhat delirious, " – are you sure?"

She returned her lips to his neck, ending a string of kisses just beneath his earlobe.

"Yes," she said, quiet but firm. "You can touch me."

He was still for a moment, and then, gathering his courage, said very hoarsely, into her hair, because he had to be sure: " –Where?"

There was a beat, and then, her answer, sealed with another kiss to his neck: "Everywhere."

"Oh Sybil... sweetheart…" – he was murmuring into her hair, breathing heavily, kissing her neck softly – "you have to put some reins on me, darling, or I'll run wild."

Her next words, hoarse and breathless, floored him.

"I want you to run wild. I like making you wild."

This was the last straw, the final push that broke the tenuous grasp of self-control he had been so desperately trying to maintain. Lifting her swiftly into his arms, he carried her in a few quick strides to his bed, where he deposited her a bit less than gently, so that the mattress bounced with the force of her weight hitting it. She felt the air go out of her lungs with the impact and grasped for him desperately during the few seconds it took him to remove his boots before he turned his attention to hers, dropping them with heavy thuds near the foot of the bed. Then, gripping his collar like a lifeline, she pulled him down to her so that his chest was crushed against hers, his full weight heavy on top of her, and she moved her legs so he could settle between them, moaning softly at the pressure. They were both still fully clothed, but she could feel the hot, hard length of him against her center and she circled her hips against it lustily, and – God help him, he didn't mean to – he bucked his hips against her, hard, and she gave a startled, satisfied little gasp – and he fought to still her hips from grinding voraciously against him by placing his palms flat on her hipbones and pinning them to the bed.

Her fingers were flying on the buttons of his waistcoat – there were only three, thank God – and she tugged it off, tossing it aside. For a moment he was at serious risk of being strangled as she struggled to figure out the intricacies of untying a tie before he helped her yank it off and over his head, then, pushing his braces off his shoulders, she tugged his shirt tails out from his waistband and made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, pulling it down his arms until it got stuck at his wrists. She gave a frustrated huff and tugged harder before realizing that there were buttons there to contend with, too. He chuckled and she smiled as he undid his cufflinks and finally shook off the shirt entirely; he felt her fingers underneath the hem of his undershirt, warm against his skin, and he grabbed the garment by the collar, pulling it off in one quick motion, leaving him finally bare-chested on top of her.

Her chest was rising and falling shallowly as she studied him, running her hands down his shoulders to his biceps and back up, over his pecs, down his taut abdomen, back up to join around his neck and pull his mouth back down to hers hungrily, suddenly feeling that she had been too long without it, and wanting to feel the solid wall of his chest against hers. She delighted in the feel of his weight on her – so imminently _present – _pressing her back into the mattress, covering her like a thick blanket on a cold winter night_._

Moving his lips to her neck, Branson placed wet, sucking kisses from her collarbone up to her earlobe, then sucked it between his teeth and flicked at it with his tongue, his left hand clenching in her hair and pulling just slightly at her scalp with a delicious pressure, his right hand on the back of her thigh over her teagown, hitching it up against his hip. "_Yes,"_ she said softly, her fingernails biting against the muscles of his back before moving to pull at her skirt, jerking it up past her knees and bunching it around her waist, shifting underneath him so that he was _right there – _right at her center, only his trousers and her wet knickers between them -and then, she did it again, she wriggled her hips in a slow, grinding circle against him.

"_Shit,_" he hissed, knowing that this was exactly the wrong thing to say but finding it spilling from his mouth anyway, moving his hand underneath the material of her skirt to grip her bare thigh and pull her harder against him. Then she was shrugging her sleeves off her shoulders and pulling her dress down her chest; Branson was never more thankful in his life that a teagown required no corset. He could see her nipples, rosy and hard through her sheer chemise, and without thinking, bent his head and sucked one into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers while he palmed the soft swell of her breast. She bucked her hips against him in response. He sucked harder, and she repeated the action; he pulled it between his teeth, nipping gently, making her cry out - and _shit_, now he couldn't stop it, he was thrusting back against her unabashedly, and she was sucking at his neck and clawing at his back as he panted into her hair – lost, completely lost . He was achingly, desperately hard, and despite being nearly 30, he was perilously close to coming in his pants like a fumbling teenager.

"Oh God, _Tom,_" she said, arching her back as he buried his hands under her skirt and grabbed her arse in his hands, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh and lifting her hips up off the mattress to meet his.

His head told him that he should be trying to still her movements instead of urging them on, but she was insistent, clutching him to her stubbornly and locking her legs around the backs of his thighs. He could feel her nipples hard against his chest, and then he made the mistake of looking down at her face, flushed and glowing, her lips more swollen than ever, her eyes deep blue, half-triumphant over her effect on him, half-dazed with her own pleasure.

"Sybil –" he choked out, desperately, warningly –

Sybil was inexperienced, but she was not a fool, and she knew his meaning without asking. "Yes, I know –" she whispered, "—I want you to."

He was close, so close, when a rapid knock at the door stopped her in her tracks, her eyes going wide with horror.

"Mr. Branson! Mr. Branson!" came Carson's voice through the thick wood door.

"Go to hell!" Branson yelled by way of response, his accent thick, still clutching Sybil to him and moving his lips back to her neck as if the butler were not standing directly outside his door.

"Tom, Tom!" Sybil said, is a desperate whisper, frantically pushing at him. "Tom, you have to let me up; I have to hide!"

Branson looked at her thickly for a moment before seeming to realize the urgency of the situation, and then, cursing under his breath, he was off her.

"Mr. Branson, I insist that you open this door immediately," said Carson, testing the lock and finding it held fast.

"Where?" Sybil mouthed to Branson, heading for the closet, but he shook his head and gestured for her to go under the bed. She did, pulling her boots in after her as Carson's keys turned in the lock. He was stopped short by the chain lock while Branson rushed to pull on his discarded shirt, buttoning it hastily before going to the door.

"Mr. Branson! What is the meaning of this?" the butler exclaimed, taking in Branson's disheveled and flushed appearance.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Carson," he said coolly. "I've been violently ill all morning – something I ate, I suppose. I can't stop the vomiting for the life of me." He feigned a suppressed belch for effect.

Carson wrinkled his nose in unfeigned disgust. "My God, lad," he said, apparently convinced. "You look positively feverish. Shall I call for Dr. Clarkston?"

Branson shook his head soberly before saying, "I'll give it another hour and if I haven't retched again, I think I'm in the clear," he said.

"Very well then," said Carson, nodding. "There's no use bothering him if you do not think it terribly serious. Lady Mary had requested the motor for the evening, but it is not urgent; I shall inform her that you are indisposed." He gave a cursory, ever-so-slightly suspicious glance around the room before turning to go.

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Carson," said Branson, shutting the door behind him and breathing a sigh of relief. He stood and watched the butler's retreating figure until he saw him disappear into the house and then, throwing the lock and rushing back to the bed, stooped to help Sybil out from her hiding spot.

"Are you alright?" he asked, taking her hands and pulling her into a standing position.

"I'm fine," she said, softly, straightening her dress and smoothing his shirt. "I was very frightened, though. I don't think any woman has ever been more thankful to discover that her fiancé is such a smooth liar." She smiled ruefully at him as he tucked a stray curl back behind her ear.

"When can we leave here?" he sighed, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. She nuzzled her cheek against his chest and sighed. After a moment, she looked up.

"Tonight," she said. "Let's go tonight."

"Tonight?" he said, disbelieving. "Are you sure?"

She nodded solemnly. "I'm tired of hiding," she said. "I'm tired of lying to everyone, and I'm tired of having to be away from you when all I want is to be with you. And…" she trailed off.

He kissed her softly, reassuringly. "And?" he said.

"And," she added in a conspiratorial whisper, with a delightfully wicked little grin, "I'm terribly anxious to be your wife… properly."

He took her meaning, knowing her as he did, and could not resist adding as he kissed his way up her neck, "To finish what we just started?"

"Yes," she sighed, and pressed her palm flat against the length of him, still hard. She was just pressing the heel of her hand into it when he caught her wrist, breathless, and said, "We'll never get out of Downton at this rate," and then, " -God, I hate telling you to stop."

With a Herculean effort he pulled away from her and sat gathering his thoughts and catching his breath while she smoothed her hair and put her boots back on. This accomplished, he stood and followed her to the door.

"Do I look presentable?" she asked, fussing with her sleeves nervously.

"You look beautiful," he said, kissing her tenderly, his heart swelling with the new freedom to give her simple compliments, without the fear of rebuke.

She smiled warmly at him. "Tonight," she said softly.

"Tonight," he said, and smiled.

Author's note: Alright, there you have it. To be continued…? We'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Here we are, part two: in which our lovely couple actually talk more than they kiss. Well, they can't very well have sexy times while they're driving away from Downton, can they? Okay, maybe just a _little _sexy times. I actually hadn't really planned on continuing this fic, but the positive response made me reconsider. Very humbly grateful to those of you who have added this to your favorites and alert lists; if you've done so and you haven't left me a review, would you please consider it? You just don't know how much they mean to me! Alright, here goes. Much more exposition and introspection than the last installment, I'm afraid, but I hope you won't be terribly bored with it nonetheless.

It was close to eleven when the soft crunch of Sybil's footsteps on the gravel woke Branson from where he sat dozing behind the wheel of the Renault. She smiled and put down her valise, and he quickly alit from the vehicle to wrap her in a tight hug.

"Are you ready, then?" he asked softly, stooping to retrieve her bag and opening the back door to place it inside.

"Yes," she said, softly. "As ready as I can ever hope to be, that is."

He took her face in his hand and looked at her very seriously. "You're very brave, Sybil. I know this isn't easy for you – leaving your family, your home."

She sighed and wiped her eyes, where a few tears had begun to gather. "It isn't easy," she said. "But you're my home now."

He kissed her, softly, and moved to get in the car, his own bags long ago stowed away. But Sybil had paused and was fingering the buttons on his chauffeur's coat, draped over the back of a chair near his workbench.

"Sybil?" he said, putting his hand on her waist lightly.

She looked up at him, smiling, and said, "You're not taking it with you, of course. Why would you?" She seemed wistful, almost absent-minded, as if she were thinking out loud. "I'm sure you'd just as soon burn it as wear it again."

"I wouldn't say that," he said, a bit hesitantly, "but I don't suppose I'll be having much use for it now."

"Of course not," she said, shaking her head. "It's just that – I guess you could say I'm rather fond of it, as strange as that may sound."

"We'll take the jacket," he said gently, "if it means something to you."

"Thank you," she said, giving him a soft smile and picking it up. Then, with one last look around the garage that had been the backdrop for some of the most defining moments of her life, she let Branson hand her into the vehicle – for the first time, into the front seat – for the last time as the chauffeur of Downton Abbey. He shut the door behind them, turned the key in the engine and eased out of the garage and down the driveway. In minutes, they were out on the open road, leaving Downton behind them. Neither of them looked back.

Sybil curled as close to Branson as she could in the front seat of the Renault, resting her head on his shoulder and her right hand on his knee. "It's very strange," she said, after several minutes in contemplative silence, "sitting in the front seat with you."

"I always wished you could sit here with me, like this," Branson said.

"What a shame that this will be our only chance to do it."

"I will miss this car," he said with a touch of wistfulness, " – and the garage."

"So will I," she said. "The garage and this car are where I fell in love you… but I don't suppose we'll see either of them again for a very long time after tonight."

Branson smiled and closed his hand over hers. "You know, that's the first time that you've come out and said it."

"Said what?" she asked, confused.

"That you loved me."

She sat up, surprised, to look at his face. "Is it really?" she said, incredulous.

He nodded, but he seemed more amused than sad about her reticence, a characteristic he had teased her about before.

"I can't believe it," she said, feeling rather dumbfounded. "I suppose I thought it for so long, I rather forgot that I'd never told you."

"It's alright," he said softly as she settled back against him. "I knew it just the same. Still – it's good to hear you say it."

Sybil smiled and laced her fingers through with his. "I love you, Tom," she said simply, kissing his cheek. "I really do – so much."

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Likewise," he said, and they both smiled.

They rode together in silence for some minutes before Branson spoke again. "So," he said, "what is it about that jacket? You seemed awful keen not to leave it behind."

"I was," she said.

"I dare say there will be green enough in Ireland without it," he said, "but I suppose you had other reasons for taking it."

"Yes," she said, and paused for a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. "I guess it's kind of silly, really – but it's just that whenever I think of you – I mean of _us_, how we started all those years ago – I'll always see you in my head in that jacket, standing in that archway in York – when you told me how you felt."

"Not exactly a happy memory, is it?" he said quizzically. "If I recall correctly, you turned me down pretty soundly." He frowned a bit as he thought back to that day, remembering how crushed he had been at her response. It was about what he had expected, and perhaps more gentle than he could've reasonably hoped for, and still it had broken his heart.

"I know," she said, her tone somewhat rueful and apologetic. "I was still so young, and I was so scared. It was an awful lot to take in all at once. But I'll always remember it, because that's when everything changed for me."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that after I knew how you felt – after I was absolutely sure that you loved me – I could never look at you again in the same way. I couldn't look at _life _the same way again. I hadn't decided that I loved you – not yet – but it's something very powerful to know that someone loves _you._ There were so many times when I was in training that I felt so hopelessly lost, and small, and stupid – and then I remembered that _you _were back at Downton, waiting for me – and that you believed in me – and I was determined not to disappoint you anymore than I already had."

"And that helped?"

"Yes," she said. "It did. So that's why I wanted to keep it."

"That's an awful lot of sentiment over a piece of clothing," he said, teasing her gently. "But I'm glad you told me."

"Surely you have some memories attached to it, too," she said.

"I do," he nodded. "I was never unhappy wearing it – not so long as I was with you, anyway. I won't miss being a chauffeur, but I'll miss this car."

"Don't they have cars in Ireland?" she joked.

"Of course they do," he smiled, "but not _this_ one."

"We spent an awful lot of time together in this car," she said dreamily, then laughed. "I can't tell you how many reasons I invented for needing you to drive me somewhere. Did you ever notice that I was constantly forgetting to pick up something in town? You must've thought me very stupid."

Branson laughed and shook his head. "Not for a moment. I thought you were very clever. I still do."

"Did you ever think that I'd be sitting here in the front seat with you – on our way to be married?"

He was quiet for a moment before he spoke. "I thought about lots of things," he said, rather seriously, but then, smiling a bit, added, "I had an awful lot of time to think, you know."

"What did you think about?" Sybil asked, voice low, a hint of mischief in her tone.

"I'll tell you some of it once we've put a bit more distance between us and Downton," he said, smiling.

"Alright then," she said, a bit perplexed at the proposed delay, but with a yawn, nuzzling back into his shoulder and closing her eyes, she let the gentle hum of the engine lull her to sleep.

Sybil was dozing on Branson's shoulder when she felt the car slow and pull off the road some time later, hearing the engine turn off. "Tom?" she said groggily, sitting up. "Is everything alright? The car hasn't quit, has it?" She was suddenly full of worry, distressed at the thought that their escape might yet be foiled. Please, not now, not when they were so close…

"No, no, the car's fine," said Branson, smiling. "Don't worry. She's never let us down before now, has she?"

Sybil furrowed her brow, confused. "What's going on then?" she said, looking around and finding them surrounded only by a dark stretch of road behind and before, and deep forest all around. Branson flicked the headlights off and they were suddenly left in the deep, quiet dark of the lonely countryside, the pale moon casting fleeting glimpses of light as fitful clouds passed over it.

He opened his door and got out of the car, beckoning for her to follow him. She cocked her head, looking at him at bit skeptically, but took his hand as he helped her from the vehicle, closing the car door behind them, and she saw his face, earnest and handsome and hopeful, before another cloud over the moon plunged them into darkness again. Feeling for the handle to the back door, he found it and climbed in ahead of her, pulling her gently in behind him, gathering her small form into his lap and pulling the door to behind him with a quiet click. For a moment, he merely ran his hands idly up and down her sides over her simple white blouse; without the hum and vibrating purr of the engine, the world felt suddenly very still and quiet, the only sounds the rustle of their clothes and their soft breathing.

"You asked what I thought about," he said, very softly, "and I said I'd tell you. But now I've decided I'd rather show you instead."

"Show me what?" she said in a low whisper, matching his hushed tone, not wanting to break the quiet peace that had settled in around them. Her breath had quickened, and in this small, confined space, she was very aware of his breathing, a bit harder and faster than normal, very aware of his body, hard, solid, and warm beneath hers, very aware of their utter seclusion, the darkness thick and heavy around them like a velvet curtain.

He said nothing more, but instead took her face in his hand, his left hand steady and warm on her hip, and kissed her, just once, very deliberately: lips parted, one very soft, wet pull that made her heart flutter. A beat, and then another kiss: this time with more pressure, lingering longer, pulling at her mouth a bit more insistently, a bit more hotly. Then, another tiny sliver of a pause, just long enough to make her wonder if he would continue, and finally, a third kiss: leisurely but deep, and she moaned against his mouth and felt a shivery rush between her legs when he slipped just a hint of his tongue into her mouth: wet, soft, erotic.

"There," he said quietly, pulling away and brushing her jaw with his thumb. "I always dreamed about doing that – here – and now I have."

Sybil was deliciously shaken by this very frank admission and its tender delivery. Nerve-ends humming, she was suddenly reminded of their breathless, desperate encounter from early in the day. Squirming on his lap, she asked huskily, "Is that _all_ you dreamed about doing here?"

"Do you want the honest answer, or the gentlemanly one?"

"Honest," she whispered, placing a kiss on his neck. "Always."

The moon passed back out from behind the clouds, and she saw him bite at his lower lip before he met her gaze and with a roguish little smile, said "Well, what do you think?"

It was very untoward, this kind of talk; maybe she should've been offended, but instead it thrilled her. Feeling half-wild and emboldened with the knowledge that he had fantasized about her – about _them, _together, here – she said after a moment, quietly: "What else did you think about?"

But he shook his head and was already opening the door to the backseat. "There's no time for that now, I'm afraid. We have to keep moving. There's an inn not far from here; we'll stop there and sleep for a few hours and then we'll head off again before sunrise."

Sybil frowned, disappointed, but of course he was right. Sighing, she moved off of him and took his hand as he led her around to the front of the vehicle and helped her back into the front seat.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he said comfortingly, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze as he started the engine and eased back onto the road. "We're almost there."

Author's note: Review? Please? Seriously. And stay with me on this one. I know this chapter was kind of blah, but it'll get juicy again, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Poor Branson! Poor Sybil! If they don't get down to business soon, I'm going to have to rename this fic "Sybil and Branson and the Never-ending Adventure of the Blue Balls." Still, I felt rather limited in this chapter in terms of how far they could go, physically, and still have it reasonably fit in with what we saw on screen. I thought it stretched the bounds of credulity too much to have them take off any clothes just to put them back on again so tidily, and they are both very buttoned-up when Mary and Edith burst in. Nonetheless, I tried to give them a _little_ sexytimes anyway, fully-clothed though it may be…

It was quite late when they at last arrived at The Swan Inn. The proprietor, clearly awoken from his slumber by the late arrival, took the room fee from Branson and groggily logged their names – "Mr. Tom Branson and Mrs. Sybil Branson" into his ledger, then handed them a key and said wearily, "First door on the right at the top of the stairs. Breakfast at eight, checkout at noon. Enjoy your stay." He shuffled back to his own quarters with some mumbled words about ungodly hours, and with that, Branson and Sybil trudged up the stairs and let themselves into the small room, Sybil flipping on a lamp and Branson setting their bags at the end of the bed.

"You take the bed," he said, nodding towards it. "I can sleep in that chair."

Sybil looked at him with surprise. "I don't mind sharing," she said, feeling confused and perhaps a little hurt at his suggestion.

"Neither do I," he said, wrapping his arms around her, "but I don't know that I could be trusted to keep my hands to myself, and I thought maybe you'd rather sleep. We have to be off again in a few hours, and we'll have a long day ahead of us."

Sybil sighed. "You're right," she said. "I don't like it, but you're right." He smiled and kissed her forehead, moving to gather a pillow and a blanket for his own use.

"I don't suppose there's any point in changing clothes," she said. "But I would like to take my hair down. Could you help me?" She moved to a small vanity in the corner and sat on the stool in front of it, looking at him expectantly in the mirror.

Branson hesitated for a moment before coming to stand behind her. This was risky territory, innocent though it seemed, because he had always found her hair to be so wonderfully lovely, dark and thick and sumptuous. More than that, he had never seen her with her hair down before; it would be a simple but new kind of intimacy, and he felt quite sure that it would make it even more difficult for him to passively retreat to the arm chair in the corner. But still, he could not refuse her.

It did not helped that she closed her eyes and sighed as he pulled the pins from her elegant coif. One by one he placed them on the vanity beside her, a new tendril of curls falling loose and tumbling down her back with each removal. Finally, they were all out – or so it would seem – and he ran his fingers through her hair to be sure, massaging her scalp gently as he did so. Finally she opened her eyes and met his in the mirror, and her expression was very earnest and perhaps more than a touch aroused, and with her hair wild and her lips slightly parted, Branson thought that she looked positively ravishing, and was forced to look away before his mind could carry him any further with images of tousled hair and swollen lips and soulful, pleading eyes. With a sigh, Sybil gathered her hair in her hands and pulled it to one side of her neck. "I have a ribbon in my valise," she said. "Would you get it for me?"

He did as she asked and having retrieved it, tied her hair in a loose bow at the nape of her neck, per her instructions. This accomplished, Branson could not resist brushing aside the crisp white fabric of her collar and bending to place a soft kiss at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He had intended for it to be chaste and brief, but then the smell of her hair and the softness of her skin made his lips linger, and then he felt rather obliged to run them up her neck to her cheek, and was rather unsuccessful at keeping his lips closed decorously or at stopping himself from sucking softly with each kiss. Opening his eyes and meeting hers in the mirror, the sight was too much for his already faltering resolve: Sybil had arched her back and tilted her neck to allow him more access, and her chest was rising and falling quickly, and he ran his hand from her shoulders around to her front to knead her breasts through her blouse. She pushed herself into his hands and gasped, and her hands were fumbling for her buttons before when he wrenched himself away. Now, he thought, he would have to stop before he – or she, or both of them – was too far gone, and he had every intention to turn and retreat to his chair and try not to think about the fact that they were well and properly alone in a hotel room deep in the countryside, or about what they had done only that afternoon, or in the car not an hour before.

But Sybil, naturally, had other ideas. She spun on her stool and threw her arms around his neck, bringing his lips down to hers wantonly. He could not help but respond in kind, pulling her into a standing position by her elbows and wrapping his arms around her waist, circling her body almost completely. Panting, she pulled back just far enough to see his face and said in a low, significant whisper, "You're not _very _tired, are you?"

"I'm tired," he said honestly, "but the day I'm too tired to kiss you is the day they bury me."

She laughed a little and returned her lips to his, trying to aim for some middle ground between polite restraint and reckless abandon but landing rather far in the latter direction. Branson, too, knew that things could not go very far – not here, not now – but his hands seemed to wander down her back of their own volition, coming to rest on her bum, round and soft beneath the thin cotton of her high-waisted skirt. She moaned softly against his mouth when he gave it a little squeeze, and, encouraged, he repeated the action, harder this time, meriting a surprised (but not displeased) little gasp from Sybil, tearing her mouth away from his rather breathlessly.

Pressing her hips flush against him, Sybil felt the long, hard length of him against her thigh and her breath hitched. "And I thought you liked my _hair_," she said, teasingly.

"I like everything about you," he said hungrily, kissing her neck again, his stubble deliciously rough against her skin.

"How can you say that," she said, trying to keep her voice flirtatiously cool and steady but instead sounding quite breathless, "when you have yet to become – acquainted with everything?"

"Nothing about you could possibly disappoint me," he said, chuckling. "If I take off your clothes and find you covered in boils, I wouldn't love you any less."

"Well you may rest easy on that point, at least," she said, smiling mischievously. "I can assure you that I have no boils."

"I wouldn't imagine so," he said softly, walking backwards towards the bed and pulling her with him.

"What would you imagine?" she asked in a low whisper, reaching between them to lay her hand, palm flat and fingers splayed, against the hard bulge in his pants.

Branson groaned as she closed her fingers around it and gave an experimental squeeze. "Quite a lot more – than we have time for tonight," he managed to choke out, finding speech increasingly difficult as she dragged the heel of her hand curiously up and down the length of him. He bit his lip and fought the urge to rip her blouse open, or to squeeze her arse again, or to pick her up and throw her onto her back against the mattress and do all of the above and then some. Instead, he tried to focus on the dull green wallpaper over her shoulder and not her warm breath on his neck and her small hand working at his cock, but it was nonetheless some moments before he could muster the will power to catch her wrist in his hand, and, bringing it up to his mouth to place a soft kiss on it, say, "We should go to sleep."

Sybil's face fell and she looked down, sighing. "I know you're right," she said, "but I wish you weren't."

"So do I," he said softly. "You have no idea how much."

Her eyes sparkled a little in the dim light. "Oh, I don't know about _that_," she said. "I'd say I had a pretty good estimation." She gestured to his pants and then broke into her familiar wide grin, and he laughed as he smoothed her hair away from her face.

"Should I kiss you goodnight, then?" he asked.

She nodded and she closed her eyes as he gave her a soft, lingering kiss, moving his mouth over hers leisurely, trying to calm them both. Eventually, their pulses seemed to return to something approaching normal, and he held her loosely against him for a few minutes, until her breathing slowed. Finally, with more than a touch of regret and resignation, he stood and moved to the chair in the corner, kissing her once more, softly, before he went.

Sybil climbed under the covers and curled onto her side facing him, reaching over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table.

For several minutes, Branson sat quietly in his chair, trying to convince himself that sleep was important and to remind himself that their marriage would never take place if he fell asleep at the wheel and drove them into a ditch. He wondered if, after she was asleep, he might be able to slip into bed beside her, just to hold her against him, but then he thought of how the smallest touch sent them both reeling – of how eager, how insistent, how _irresistible_ she was – and he gripped the arms of the little chair more tightly and told himself to stay where he was. Then he thought about how dear, how sweet, how passionate and funny and smart and determined she was, and how desperately, incandescently happy he was that she was going to be his wife, and he thought that he should tell her so.

"Sybil?" he said, very quietly.

But she was already asleep.

Branson was awoken sometime later by the sound of a car and the dim recognition of anxious voices. For a moment, he forgot where he was and what he was doing there, but he knew that the car and the voices meant something bad, and in a few seconds more he was conscious enough to fully realize what was happening. He shook Sybil awake gently as he heard a sharp knocking at the door downstairs.

"Sybil," he said, hating to wake her and with a growing feeling of dread building in his stomach. "Sybil, darling, wake up… they're here."

"What?" she said groggily, her voice heavy with sleep and confusion. "Who…?"

"Your sisters, I think," he said, and within moments she was sitting up, feeling suddenly very awake, very perturbed, and with a sudden blush, very, very glad that they had both stayed in their clothes.

Yes, she could hear their voices downstairs, speaking hurriedly – and probably more than a bit rudely – with the bemused innkeeper, who had not seen this much excitement in many months. Then, there were quick footsteps on the stairs, a rapid knock at the door, and Mary and Edith – whom Sybil had not counted on seeing again for perhaps many months – burst into the room.

"How did you find us? How did you know?" asked Branson, jumping up from his chair as Sybil turned on the light and stood. He felt incensed at the sudden intrusion on their privacy, but more than that, a sudden sinking despair and anger at the thought that Sybil – dear, wonderful, beautiful Sybil – might yet slip through his fingers.

"Never mind that," said Mary dismissively. "At least nothing's happened, _thank God._"

"What do you mean, 'nothing's happened'?" said Sybil, indignant at Mary's assessment. She had made the largest, most important decision of her young life – decided to leave behind her home and her family and everything she knew – and Mary's biggest concern was the state of her hymen. It was insulting and infuriating, the idea that the most important thing at stake here was her virginity, and a part of her almost wished that she _had _already slept with Branson, if for no other reason than to be able to say, "Actually, you're too late; I've already been deflowered by the chauffeur." Perhaps then they would consider her ruin complete, the cause lost, and let them go in peace.

"I've decided to marry Tom," she said firmly, "and your coming after me won't change that."

"This isn't the way," said Edith, more gently than Mary.

"She's right," Mary said. "Of course Mama and Papa will hate it –"

"Why should they?" said Branson hotly, feeling as if his world was splintering apart around him.

"Oh, pipe down," said Mary haughtily, and he bit his tongue and swallowed his pride at this condescension. Nothing he could say, he was sure, would make Lady Mary see his side; he did not dislike her, per se, but he knew that she was too firmly ensconced in her aristocratic world to see him as more than an insubordinate servant bent on ruining the family. As they argued, Branson could see Sybil visibly soften at her sister's admonitions, and though he told her not to listen, he knew that he was outnumbered and outmaneuvered. He knew full well how much Sybil loved her family, knew full well how insidious Lady Mary could be, knew full well the pressing doubts that had kept Sybil in a state of agonizing indecision for such long, aching years. Suddenly all of his doubts and fears that she would change her mind came bubbling to the surface, and he was keenly afraid that if she left now, all would be lost. She would go back to Downton. Even if she did not tell her parents, her sisters would, and they would cast him out and ensure that any attempts at contact between them were preempted. They would play on her natural sympathies, her desire for peace and harmony, her horror at the thought of disappointing and hurting the people who raised her. Their arguments against him would be damning: he was a radical, he had no money, he could never provide for her. The match would bring disgrace and scandal to the family. It would be years before people would tire of talking about the youngest Crawley daughter and what a shame it was that she had run off and ruined herself with one of the servants. He would take her to Ireland, where there was unrest and potential danger. His family would reject her as a representation of a social class and a nation that oppressed them. He would have no references and no job. They would have no servants, and Sybil knew only the barest of basics of how to care for herself, much less a husband, much less children. All these things and more, he knew would be the case against him, and all the years of slow, steady progress – the laborious crumbling of walls between them – would be for naught. It was hard enough to be told you couldn't have the thing you wanted most in the world, the state of perpetual limbo he had been living in for the past many years. Now, it seemed far crueler still to have been given a taste of that much-hoped-for future, only to have it snatched from your very hands on the cusp of its realization.

Sybil hung her head and Branson felt his heart sink at the sight. "God back with them, then," he said, though the words pained him, "if you think they can make you happier than I will."

"Am I so weak that you think I can be talked out of giving my heart in five minutes flat?" she said softly, aching at the defeat on his face, the look of tired resignation. She turned away, dismayed. "But Mary's right. I don't like deceit and our parents don't deserve it. So I'll go back with them."

Branson set his mouth in a firm line, feeling utterly hopeless. But then, this was Sybil – his Sybil – could he still think of her as "his"? – defiant and daring and completely, utterly incorrigible when once she had made up her mind to do something. "Believe it or not, I will stay true to you," she said, and closing her eyes and fighting back tears, she kissed his cheek softly. It was a small comfort, but he grasped at it like a lifeline. If anyone had the strength to stand firm against what was now sure to come, surely it would be Sybil.

Whatever else was said between him and Mary or Edith, he could hardly remember as he climbed into the small bed – still warm from Sybil's recent abandonment of it – and tried to go to sleep. The last thing he thought of before he drifted into a restless slumber was Sybil's anguished face and her simple promise: "I will stay true to you."

Author's note: Oooh, angst. I don't love this chapter because not much happens and there's a lot of blah-blah-blah feelings and whatnot, but I'm trying to follow canon, and at least now we're on our way to happier times for our young lovers! After all, they're about to return to Downton and then we have a mysteriously, inexplicably long time between then and their revelation to the family, and I think they'll have some fun in the meanwhile, don't you?


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Hi everyone. Thanks as always for the kind reviews, author and story alerts, and adds to your favorites list. It really brightens my day when I see one of those things (although of course I love reviews most of all!). I recently experienced an unexpected personal tragedy and need all the cheering up I can get, so if you feel like you can spare a few minutes to share your thoughts, it would truly mean a lot to me.

oooooooooooo

Sybil flew down the steps of the hotel and out into the cool night, only then allowing a single, choked sob to escape. For a moment, her shoulders shook and she clasped her hand over her mouth, crying silently, but then, taking a few deep breaths, she collected herself and resolved to be calm. Letting out a shuddering breath, she climbed into the backseat next to Anna and stared resolutely out the window as the car sped through the darkness.

"Honestly Sybil, what _were _you thinking?" Mary asked after a few minutes. "You might still be ruined, you know. If word of this gets out, no one will believe that nothing happened."

"Please, Mary, not now," said Sybil dourly. "I'm very tired and I just want to rest."

Mary shrugged noncommittally. "Alright, if that's how you want it," she said.

"None of this is how I _want _it," Sybil said. "I _want _to be with my fiancé and I _want _to have my family accept us and I _want _–"

"Oh, Sybil," Mary said dismissively. "Darling, you _are _tired. You're right, we won't discuss this now. I'm sure you're see things more clearly in the morning."

Sybil shook her head and leaned it against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes, thinking of Tom and trying to forget that she was headed right back to Downton, back to her gilded cage.

ooooooooo

Back in her old bedroom, Sybil dismissed Anna and refused her offers of assistance. "No thank you, Anna," she said softly. "I can manage on my own, and I'm afraid I've already disrupted your night too much."

"At least let me help you change, milday," said Anna kindly. "You'll feel better once you get into your night clothes."

"Really, Anna, I can do it," she said. "I just want to be alone, if you don't mind."

Anna nodded and was leaving the room when she paused and said, a bit hesitantly, "They'll come around, milady. They just need some time."

"I hope so," Sybil said, not sure if she believed it. "Thank you, Anna."

The door had barely clicked shut when Sybil threw herself onto the bed and let herself cry. She considered herself a strong woman, emotionally resilient, but the stress and excitement and upheaval of the past 48 hours had taken their toll and left her shaken. Suddenly her bed seemed cold and lonely and ridiculously large, but nonetheless her fatigue was such that she was drifting off when a thought hit her and had her sitting up and fumbling for her valise by the side of her bed. Throwing it open, she pulled out what she was looking for: Tom's chauffeur's jacket.

She had not bothered to take off her traveling clothes, but now she pulled off her boots and stockings, loosened the buttons of her blouse and shrugged it off her shoulders, pulled her chemise over her head, and stepped out of her long skirt, dropping her knickers after it. Pulling the jacket on, it was warm and surprisingly weighty on her shoulders, the fabric vaguely but not unpleasantly rough against her bare skin, and it carried the familiar smell of _him._ It was much too large, the shoulder seams hitting close to her elbows, the hem mid-thigh. It was a poor substitute for his arms around her, but it mimicked an embrace enough to bring a faint smile to her face for the first time since she had left the hotel. Crawling into bed and pulling the jacket close around her, she almost instantly fell asleep.

ooooooooooo

The next morning, Sybil was walking down the grand staircase of Downton with Branson's jacket stuffed into a small bag that she had once used to carry her nursing supplies. As she made her way to the front door, she heard the soft click of footsteps behind her and groaned inwardly as she glanced to see Mary coming along behind her, close on her heels.

"Sybil darling, where are you going?" said Mary, with feigned ignorance and curiosity.

The front door closing behind them, Sybil looked to be sure there were no servants about to overhear and then said, with undisguised irritation, "I'm going to return Tom's chauffeur's jacket. I suppose he'll be needing it again, thanks to you and Edith."

"He should count himself lucky to still have a job at all," said Mary tartly. "Really, Sybil, you can be as bitter as you like, but you know we were right or you wouldn't have come back with us."

"Just because you're right doesn't mean I have to like it," she said with a huff.

"Of course not," said Mary. "But one must do many things that one does not _like _to do." Sybil glanced at her sister and for a brief moment, felt a pang of sadness for her, knowing how much Mary carried those words to heart.

Her sympathetic feelings passed quickly, however, as she realized that Mary meant to dog her all the way to the garage. Annoyed, she stopped in her tracks and said, "Mary, do you really intend to chaperone me every time I leave the house now?"

"I do indeed," said Mary, with a familiar archness. "After all, you promised me not so very long ago that you wouldn't do anything stupid, and we see how well that turned out."

Sybil shook her head in frustration and continued walking. "We won't try to run away again," she said. "Not after last night."

"_That's_ not what I'm worried about," said Mary significantly.

Sybil laughed mirthlessly at her sister's apparent preoccupation with her virtue. "What do you think we're going to do," she said, " –make love on the lawn in broad daylight?"

Mary looked a bit taken aback by this bold suggestion, perhaps for the first time realizing that her baby sister had, somewhere along the way, grown up and become a woman. But she rallied quickly, and could not help placing one more sarcastic barb. "Well," she said, with a little smile and a cock of her eyebrow, "you never know. _True love_ can make us do such foolish things."

There was no time for Sybil to let the words sting, however, as they rounded the corner and saw Branson leaning against the front of the car, reading the newspaper. Only those who knew him very well would've spotted the uncharacteristic droop in his shoulders, the air of quiet resignation in his posture, the sense of fatigue and frustration, but Sybil saw it, and her heart twisted a little at it. But then, he looked up and saw her, and he smiled and seemed to rally so instantly that she almost wanted to cry. They'd been through so much, only to end up right back here where they started – exchanging shy smiles and furtive glances in the garage at Downton. But not for much longer, she told herself. _We're almost there._

She would've run to him and launched herself into his arms if Mary had not been present, but her effect on the scene inevitably muted how they could react. Folding his paper neatly and placing it on the hood of the car, Branson decided to himself that the only way to face the situation was with cheek; after all, it was rather ridiculous for them to be keeping up formalities after everything that had happened last night, and if he didn't mock the whole situation a bit, he knew that he would become angry or terribly dejected instead.

"Good morning, Lady Sybil," he said casually, giving her a sly little smile. He nodded to Mary. "Lady Mary."

"Good morning, Branson," said Mary with forced politeness.

"I've brought you back your jacket," said Sybil, approaching him excitedly and then halting at a decorous distance, reaching into her bag and handing it to him.

"Why thank you, milady," he said, feigning surprise. "I can't imagine where I must've left it. It was so good of you to return it; I'd hate for Lord Grantham to find me missing it."

Sybil could not help but smile a little while Mary rolled her eyes and sighed loudly at the charade. "Honestly, you two," she said. "You don't need to put on airs on account of me."

Unable to resist, Sybil closed the gap between her and Branson and said, softly, as he pulled on the jacket, "Last night was so awful. Did you get any sleep?"

"Not much," he said, shaking his head. "What about you?"

"I slept in that, last night," she said lowly, nodding at his jacket.

"Did you?" he said, his eyes going wide and his voice surprised and eager, but then, darting his eyes to Mary, he cleared his throat and with a dismissive cock of his head repeated, innocuously this time, as he fastened the buttons, "I mean… did you?"

Sybil, however, would not bother with pretenses for the sake of her sister's delicacy. "Yes," she said, with an emphatic nod, before adding: "O_nly _that, in fact." She raised her chin a bit at this last statement, her eyes bright.

"SYBIL!" exclaimed Mary, whose face was positively aghast at this brazen declaration, and Branson might have laughed at her reaction, had he seen it. As it was, he was thunderstruck at the thought – the mental _image_ – of the very coat he was wearing wrapped around Sybil's naked body, draped loosely around her soft curves, rubbing against her bare breasts, back, stomach, arse, thighs...

"Enough of this," said Mary, whose presence Branson had momentarily forgotten completely, and who was now staring at Sybil so intently, Mary worried that perhaps they _would _make love on the lawn in broad daylight. Grabbing her sister's hand, she tugged her back in the direction of the house, rather as if she were a naughty puppy who had finally broken the patience of its trainer. "Sybil, you've completed your errand, now we'll return to the house. Good day, Branson."

She turned on her heels and had gone several steps before she realized that Sybil was not following her, and looked back to see her little sister caught in a warm embrace, her arms around Branson's neck, kissing him desperately. Branson, for his part, seemed to have similarly lost his senses, his hands clutching at Sybil's back, his brow furrowed.

Mary rushed back to the indecorous couple and they separated, Branson looking rather abashedly at her. "Sybil, are you mad?" she hissed. "I'm starting to believe that you actually _want_ to be discovered and ruined. You know that if someone sees you like this, any chance you have of ever getting Papa's blessing with be gone. He'll send Branson away and do everything he can to make sure you never see him again. Is _that _what you want? For God's sakes, what has gotten into you?"

But she softened a bit when she saw the tears in her sister's eyes. "I know you're right, Mary," she said, squeezing Branson's hand before turning away from him as he looked on, bereft. "But surely you of all people know how hard it is to be forced away from the man you love?"

For the barest of seconds, Mary's smooth veneer of implacability dropped, and she looked vulnerable and sad. But she checked herself, and putting an arm around Sybil's shoulders, said in her best soothing-big-sister voice, "There, there, darling. You should be happy, at least, that _your_ separation is only temporary. I know you must be disappointed at the delay, but you know it's for the best. Come, darling, let's go back to the house where we can talk about this like sensible people."

"Do you think Tom is not sensible people, then?" she asked, but there was a tone of teasing in her voice and she smiled a little.

"I dare say he isn't," said Mary, but she looked at Branson and smiled as she said it. "He must be a great fool indeed to have done what he's done – but I suppose we all do foolish things in the name of love. If I were a romantic, I might be tempted to say it was all very moving. Thank God I'm not."

Sybil smiled at Mary's teasing, pleased to see her softening a bit. "Do you mind if I speak with Tom alone for a moment? Please?"

"I'll give you five minutes alone and not a minute more," said Mary. "Surely you can't get into _too_ much trouble in that amount of time." She arched an eyebrow at Branson warningly and said over her shoulder as she exited, "Five minutes, dear! I'll be waiting for you."

"Well," said Sybil, looking around the garage as Mary's footsteps faded away down the path, "here we are again." She smiled ruefully.

Branson sighed, taking her hands in his. "I have to say, I didn't see it coming, though perhaps I should've," he said. "God knows there's no secret that can be kept around this house for very long. Still, ours got out faster than normal, even for Downton." He smoothed her hair back from her face and rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb, then kissed her cheek softly.

"It's my fault," Sybil said, looking down. "I left them a note. I didn't expect that they'd find it so soon, but I couldn't bear to leave without saying goodbye _somehow._"

"I wouldn't have wanted you to," he said sincerely. "As a matter of fact, I wrote a little note of my own. Only I thought I'd mail mine once we were over the border." He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pants pocket and handed it to Sybil. Opening it, she read its contents, brief and forthright. This is what it said:

_Dear Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, and Lady Edith:_

_I won't say I'm sorry for what we've done – for I could never be sorry to make the woman I love my wife – but I am sorry for how it had to happen. Please don't hate Sybil for it. The only thing she's guilty of is having a heart that's too good and too loving for the strictures of an unfair world. You should know that I love her more than everything I hold dear, and will do everything in my power to make her happy for all the rest of our days._

_Very sincerely,_

_Tom Branson_

Sybil laughed softly and wiped her eyes, folding the letter and handing it back to him. "Only you, Tom," she said with a smile, "would start a letter to my parents with 'I won't say I'm sorry.'"

Branson smiled. "I know it's not Shakespeare," he said, "but I wrote it in a hurry."

"I think it's beautiful," she said, giving his cheek and kiss and wrapping her arms around his waist before sighing and resting her cheek on his shoulder. "And I'm sorry that it's turned out this way. I was so anxious to be married to you – I _am _so anxious to be married to you – and now I've spoiled everything."

"You've spoiled nothing," he said gently. "If I have to wait another ten years for you, I will." There was a beat, and then he smiled before adding, "Still, I hope it won't take quite _that _long. When do you think you'll tell them?"

Sybil pulled back took look him in the eye and shook her head. "_We,_" she said. "We'll do it together."

Branson inhaled sharply at this prospect. "Well," he said, "I suppose I see the sense in it. After all, we're in this together now." He sighed and added, "Besides…perhaps they'll be less likely to malign me if I'm standing right in front of them."

"Perhaps," she conceded, with a little smile, "but I wouldn't count on it."

"You'll defend my honor, of course," he said teasingly.

"To the death," she said, with affected graveness.

"Let's hope it won't come to that," he said, and laughed. Then, with feigned concern: "Your father doesn't carry a pistol, does he?"

"Not in the house, anyway," Sybil chuckled. "Though I think it would be best if we save our announcement for the drawing room and not for quail hunting, just to be on the safe side."

"You want me to come into the house, then?" he asked.

"Of course," said Sybil.

"Won't they think it strange for the chauffeur to come bursting into the drawing room after dinner?"

"I dare say they'll think it stranger still when I tell them that I intend to _marry_ the chauffeur."

"God Almighty," said Branson, shaking his head and laughing, but less mirthfully than before. "I can't imagine how they'll take it."

"Not lying down, I'm sure," said Sybil regretfully. "Do you think you're ready for it?"

"I am," he said seriously, nodding his head. "I'll be glad, in fact – after it's all said and done, at least – to not need to hide anymore. And I can't tell you how proud I am to be able to say that you love me and mean to be my wife. The question is, are _you _ready."

"I don't know," she said honestly, her voice quiet. "You know they always say it's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission. Maybe it was cowardly of me, but that's what I'd hoped to do."

"You're no coward," Branson said reassuringly. "You're one of the bravest people I know. Don't think I don't know what you're giving up for me. If you were a coward, you'd never've come with me last night, and you wouldn't be standing here with me now."

"I'll need some time," she said, feeling dismayed at the prospect of making him wait for her – again. But he nodded, understanding. "It's different now," she said. "You know Papa. I'm not afraid of him – but I am afraid of disappointing him. I just wish that he could know you like I do. He'd understand then."

"Maybe he will," Branson said hopefully. "One day."

She squeezed his hand as she turned to go. "I'll come see you again in the morning," she said. "That is, if Mary lets me." He grinned and kissed her hand, then her cheek.

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Mary reappeared in the garage and looked at Branson and Sybil appraisingly. "Well?" she said. "Are you ready to leave now?"

"Never," said Sybil, shaking her head and pulling away from Branson grudgingly. "But I suppose I must." She glanced back at him as Mary took her hand and led her from the garage.

"Branson," said Mary, turning back as if on an afterthought. "You should know – that I'm protecting you because I love Sybil, not because I approve of this."

"I know, milady," he said soberly. "I didn't expect you to."

Mary set her mouth in a firm little line and walked with Sybil back towards the house. When they were out of earshot of the garage, she sighed dramatically and said, "Do you really still intend to go through with this, darling? I'd thought that you'd see things more clearly now that you've had a chance to rest, but I'm afraid you seem more determined than ever."

"I am," she said, extracting her hand from Mary's somewhat indignantly. "I'm going to marry Tom, and nothing you or anyone else can say is going to stop me."

"I'm afraid I just can't picture it," said Mary, shaking her head. "_You_ – Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham, baby of the family – living in a hutin Ireland, shearing sheep and eating potatoes."

"We won't live in a hut," said Sybil defiantly, "and even if we do, I'd rather be _with_ him in a hut in Ireland than without him at Downton or anywhere else."

"You really do love him, don't you?" asked Mary.

"I do. Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

Mary sighed again. "I suppose I'd forgotten that some people actually marry for love." She smiled sardonically. "Now, let's hurry or we'll be late for luncheon."

Author's note: Please review. I need the cheering up. And yes, things will be getting steamy again. Next chapter, in fact. Reviews make me post faster!


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: As always, thank you so much for your kind reviews. I am really enjoying writing this fic. This chapter was difficult; smut is the hardest thing to write well! You have to choose your words so carefully – too technical and you sound like a biology text book, too euphemistic and you sound like a cheesy paperback romance novel, too gritty and you sound like a porno. I hope I achieved the right tone; I was going for sexy and erotic but also sweet, and trying to stay true to the characters, of course. Please review and let me know what you think! I'd also like to address the reviewer candy, who said that this is "1919 not 2012 - I very much doubt that Sybil would 'go all the way' before marriage. She would be much too worried about pregnancy and contraception was not widely available then." A valid point and I don't necessarily disagree – just stick with me on this and you'll see how I handle it! Our Sybil is a smart girl; trust her and trust me. ;)

ooooooooooo

Branson startled a bit as he entered his cottage and saw a figure seated at his kitchen table, then relaxed and broke into a broad smile as he recognized his visitor. "Hello," he said simply, locking and chaining the door behind him.

"I let myself in," said Sybil, smiling as he approached her. "I hope you don't mind."

Branson leaned down and kissed her softly. "Of course not," he said. "But how did you get away without Lady Mary following you?"

"She's gone to London with Sir Richard," Sybil said happily. "They left this morning. She put Edith on my trail, but she's much less diligent than Mary. In fact, I almost suspect she's on our side."

"Really?" said Branson, surprised. "What makes you think that?"

Sybil smiled. "Because Mary is opposed to us."

Branson smiled too; the many years he had spent working at Downton had given him more than a passing familiarity with the antagonistic relationship between Lady Mary and Lady Edith. "Do you think she'll stick up for us, when we tell your parents?"

Sybil shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I'd like to hope so, but then again, no one gives Edith's opinion much credit, anyway."

"Well," he said, sighing ruefully, "_your _opinion's the only one that really matters, but I doubt they'll see it that way."

"I'm afraid not," she agreed.

There was a beat, while they both contemplated the difficult task that lay ahead of them. After a moment, Branson spoke again. "Have you been here long?" he asked, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door, followed by his waistcoat.

"Awhile," she shrugged. "I was reading the newspaper."

"Anything interesting?" he said, removing his cufflinks and pushing his sleeves up his forearms.

"Really, Tom…" said Sybil, smiling now as she stood and walked towards him until their bodies were just brushing. Unfastening the buttons of his shirt calmly as she spoke, she continued, "…don't you think we've spent enough years talking current events – when we might've been doing this?" Her smile broadened into a grin, and reaching the last button, she pushed his shirt off his shoulders. He let it fall to the floor; he was not wearing an undershirt and she placed a kiss on his bare chest, then the underside of his jaw, and finally on his lips. He wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her flush against him, kissing her intently by way of response.

"What if someone comes to order the motor?" she asked, pulling away from him slightly but keeping her arms circled around his waist.

"We're in luck," said Branson, grinning. "You're father's given me the rest of the afternoon off."

"Why would he do that?" she asked, bemused.

"Apparently, my driving today was sufficiently inept as to make him think me ill."

"But you're such a good driver!" Sybil protested.

"Usually," he agreed, "but today all I could think about was what he's going to say – what _we're _going to say – when we tell him, and I'm afraid it had me out of sorts enough for him to notice."

"And so he sent you home?"

Branson nodded. "He said I was not myself and to take the afternoon to rest."

"Well," said Sybil, smiling mischievously, "I'm afraid you'll have to be insubordinate on that point."

"Oh?" said Branson, raising an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Because I had other things in mind." Her eyes were sparkling, her expression impish.

"Like what?" he said, returning her smile.

"Like this," she said, more seriously now, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him, open-mouthed and more impatiently than before. He brought his hands to her chest and when she did not push them away – in fact, she groaned into his mouth – he went to work on the buttons of her blouse, blindly making his way down the line of them as they kissed. When they parted long enough for him to look down and observe his handiwork, he was stunned to find not the lacy chemise he had expected, but her bare breasts: flushed a rosy pink, perfectly pert, softly rounded, beautiful.

For a moment he was too stunned to speak, and when he did it was only to say, rather stupidly, "You're – you're not wearing a chemise."

"Oh!" Sybil said, as if surprised, looking down at her bare chest as if this development were as unexpected for her as it was for him. "So I'm not. Anna was sick this morning so I dressed myself. I must've forgotten to put it on."

If he had chanced to look at her face in that moment, he would've seen her smile; as it was, his gaze was firmly fixed on her breasts, his head swimming at this turn of events and from the blood rushing to areas further south. He hesitated for just a moment before placing his hands gently on them – impossibly soft and supple – and he exhaled sharply as he felt her nipples hard against his palms and saw her pale skin depress between his fingers when he squeezed. Sybil kissed his neck and then backed away; for a moment Branson thought that she meant to disengage from him entirely, but she was only moving to pull off her boots, and then moved to his small bed, beckoning him to follow her. He hardly needed coaxing, but paused long enough to remove his own shoes and socks before joining her on the bed.

For awhile, he sat propped on his elbow beside her, studying her face earnestly as she lay expectantly beside him, meeting his gaze bravely, though her heart was fluttering nervously. Finally, he bent to kiss her again, less frantically than before, more measured and deliberate. She opened her mouth against his and let his tongue slip in, softly. Then, breaking away from her mouth, he bent his head and kissed her chest, right over her heart, significantly – then lower, pulling her nipple into his mouth and gently pinching the other between his thumb and index finger. Sybil moaned softly and threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him to her. He sucked a little harder and she gasped, curling her fingers tighter in his hair, her fingernails nipping at his scalp; he pulled at it gently with his teeth and she arched her back, squirming restlessly beneath him.

"You know," she said breathlessly as Branson switched his attention to her other breast, "come to think of it – when I was getting dressed this morning I – ooh, yes," she paused for a moment, distracted as he nipped softly at her skin – "I think – I think that I _may _have forgotten more than my chemise."

Branson stopped dead in his tracks and looked at her face to see if she was joking, but her expression was perfectly innocent. Swallowing a lump in his throat and wondering if he understood her meaning, he said, rather hoarsely, "Really?"

"Yes, well, you know how we posh people are," she said teasingly. "We're quite hopeless without our maids."

He kept his eyes fixed on hers, reading her expression: was she inviting him to investigate what _other_ garments she might have neglected? Her gaze was steady and resolute, though her chest rose and fell shallowly in nervous anticipation. Never taking his eyes from hers, he reached down to her ankle and dragged his hand up her leg, drawing the fabric of her skirt with it. She gave a small nod, barely perceptible, and he moved his hand underneath the fabric and up her hip, and bit his lip to keep from groaning out loud at the touch of her skin, warm and noticeably bare. Feeling emboldened, he ran his hand around towards her arse, and she lifted her hips off the mattress compliantly. Her bum was indeed decidedly naked, and he forced himself to take several deep, steadying breaths before he said, "I do believe you forgot more than your chemise today."

Sybil furrowed her brow in feigned befuddlement. "That seems terribly unlikely," she said, trying to sound mocking and playful but rapidly becoming much too aroused for coyness and games as he palmed her arse inquisitively. For a moment, she studied his face, stalwart and handsome, and then, gathering her courage, let her legs fall open as much as she dared and said, very softly, "Are you sure?"

Once more, Branson found himself staring at her, dumb-struck. Her meaning was clear, and yet he still could not quite believe it – she wanted him to touch her, _there _– and he was surprised at how affected he was by it, finding it both sobering and poignant.

Looking at her face, half-expectant, half-shy, he felt suddenly a bit overcome with a flurry of emotions – love and reverence and desire and expectation and more that he couldn't quite name – and finally he pulled her into a deep kiss and closed his eyes. She relaxed against him – this was territory familiar enough, after all – and he did not stop kissing her as he moved his hand from her bum to the front of her thigh. Then, after a moment, he moved it to between her parted legs and cupped his hand against her, and yes, she was _definitely _sans-knickers, and if she was _this_ warm and wet on the _outside… _

He rubbed his middle finger along her opening until she was wriggling impatiently against him, then pushed it inside of her. She pulled her mouth away from his and gasped, then said simply, "Oh, yes," and pulled him into another kiss, careless and half-frantic. Rocking her hips against his hand in response to his ministrations, he felt encouraged enough to add his index finger, and then she was kissing him very roughly and digging her fingernails into his shoulder hard enough to hurt, though he was sure she did not mean to.

Finally too distracted to be bothered with the effort of kissing, Sybil simply lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, panting as Branson pushed his long fingers in and out of her, curling them inside her and making her ache in a maddening, yet not-unpleasant way. Then, with a soft kiss to her collarbone, he brushed his calloused thumb against her clit and she jerked against him, caught off guard; he did it again and then began worrying it in earnest. Only a few moments more of this and then she was saying his name, just once, drawing it out into three syllables, a hoarse plea. Then, trembling all over and whimpering quietly, he felt her inner walls clenching around his fingers and she arched her back sharply and gripped his bicep like a vise, then final went still, limp and exhausted, gasping for breath.

She was still delirious as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close against him, her breasts still bare against his chest, her blouse still draped around her shoulders. He rubbed her bare back languidly underneath the thin material, and after a moment, when her breathing had slowed and she could think clearly again, she met his gaze, his eyes warm and questioning, hers full of wonder. He chuckled a little at her expression, and then kissed her softly, not quite sure of what to say; "I love you" seemed too hackneyed for such a moment, and anything else too glib, so he said nothing. Sybil too was quiet, nuzzling her face into his chest, and just when he thought she was going to fall asleep in his arms, he felt her stir, her hands reaching for his waist, unfastening his belt buckle.

"Sybil –" he said, his eyes going wide as she pulled the belt through its loops and chucked it to the floor.

"Hush," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I'm just returning the favor."

"Oh, Sybil, sweetheart – you don't have to —"

"I know," she said, "…but I_ want_ to."

Any further thoughts of protest on his part were forgotten when she reached into his trousers and took him in her hand. "Oh!" she said softly, fascinated, and pushed his clothes out of the way for better access. Her nursing duties had given her some familiarity with anatomy, but never like _this_, of course, and she was amazed at how soft the skin was, how hard _it _was, a little intimidated at how _big _it was – and Branson groaned and closed his eyes as she gave him a little squeeze, and when he opened them again she was looking at him with amazement and whispered, "I can feel your pulse!"

Branson might have responded that this was reassuring news, as he was beginning to doubt his heart's capacity to function properly in this context, but he was too distracted by her sliding her hand down to the base and back up to the tip, pausing to investigate the moisture she found there before spreading it with her thumb and continuing, repeating the motion and adding a little twist of her wrist, experimentally. A lifetime of wearing gloves had left her hands uncommonly soft, and perhaps her palms were sweating, because her hand slid over him smoothly, quickly finding a rhythm. It was not long before he was pushing at her hand, trying to make her stop, knowing that he was close and desperately afraid that he would startle and offend her with what was about to happen.

Sybil, however, was persistent. "Sybil – sweetheart –" he choked, then could only manage to say, "your skirt –" He did not want to ruin it, and yet she would not stop stroking him, and frankly he was not putting up much of a fight anyway.

Within moments, it was too late for these considerations, and he was thrusting into her hand mindlessly, gasping, and then he was spilling into her hand and onto her bare stomach. Collapsing, still shaking a bit, he lay panting on his back for quite awhile before he regained his senses enough to turn and look at her, hoping that she was not terribly horrified and offended.

If Sybil had been surprised at first, she had now recovered, and in fact, rallied enough to be quite pleased with herself. As such, he was met with a mischievous smile that made his heart swell with affection. "Oh, sweetheart," he said lovingly, returning her smile and kissing her softly. Then, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket after he had tucked himself back into his trousers, he handed it to her. "Here," he said gently. She wiped her hand and stomach with it, a smile still playing on her lips. Then her expression changed to a little frown as she handed the handkerchief back to him, saying, "Can you go run this under the faucet? It's still – sticky." She blushed a little then, for the first time since entering the cottage, unable to find a more apt word.

"Of course," said Branson, feeling a little embarrassed now himself, and returned with the damp cloth. "I'm sorry," he said a little bashfully as he wiped her stomach and hands.

"It's alright," she said understandingly. "It has to go somewhere, doesn't it? And it can't go inside me – not yet."

He paused to look her in the eye, then absent-mindedly brought the cloth up to her breasts and ran it over them, unnecessary but not unwelcome. "You do still want to wait, don't you?" he asked. "Until we're married?"

This question was difficult for Sybil to answer with Branson's hands distractedly toying with her nipples. She sighed – half in pleasure, half frustration, and said, "If you had asked me before we ever kissed, I would've been unequivocal."

"But -?" he prompted, kissing her jawline.

"But then I thought we'd be married right away –" she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and brought his lips to hers – "and I wasn't counting on it being like _this._" Branson understood her meaning without question; the "_this" _she meant was how reckless and frantic and_ consuming_ it had all turned out to be.

"I know," he agreed, kissing her again as she buttoned her blouse. "I want you to know that I still mean what I said, though. I'd wait forever. I've gotten good at waiting."

"It won't be long now," she said. "I promise. It hasn't seemed like the right time to tell Mama and Papa, not yet. But I'm sure it will be soon. _You _may be good at waiting, but I'm afraid I'm not, once I've decided what I want."

"And what is that, exactly?" said Branson, smiling a little, knowing he was baiting her for a compliment.

She moved to sit in his lap and kissed his neck sweetly. "You," she said simply. "That's it. That's all. The rest is detail."

He smoothed her hair off her face with his hand and kissed her. "I love you, Sybil."

"I know," she said, nodding. "I love you, too."

Then, with a heavy sigh, she stood and retrieved her discarded boots. Pulling them back on as he moved to redress himself, she said, "I'd suppose I'd better get back to the house before they send out the search party."

"Alright," he said, nodding. "See you soon?"

She smiled as he opened the door to let her out.

"Soon," she said, then turned and headed back to the house.

Author's note: Is anyone still reading this fic? This chapter has gotten very few hits or reviews since I posted it. Wondering how much further I should continue it, considering.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: Well, I finally felt encouraged enough to continue! I had gotten a little dejected thinking that all my readers had abandoned me, but it seems that there are still some out there, and I will keep writing as long as you keep reviewing and asking me to. So here we go: another chapter!

oooooooooo

Reentering the house, Sybil was startled to hear her name whispered in a sharp hiss from the direction of the library. Poking her head inside, she saw Edith, who beckoned her hurriedly to come closer.

"Mama knows that you've been at Branson's cottage," she said anxiously.

"What? How?" Sybil exclaimed, reaching out and clutching Edith's arm in worry.

"Don't panic," said Edith. "I don't think she suspects anything..." she searched for the right word, "…unusual. You must've been seen going in – O'Brien told her. I thought you should know."

"You haven't told her about us, have you?" asked Sybil.

Edith looked a little hurt at this suggestion. "Of course not," she said, her tone a bit indignant. "Didn't I promise you I wouldn't?"

"You did," Sybil said, feeling guilty for questioning her sister and looking down. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she added, "I'm sorry."

"Well," Edith said, raising her chin a bit, "in any case, when she asks where you've been, you'd better tell the truth. Otherwise she'll know you're lying and think you've got something to hide. Which, of course, you do," she added, rather petulantly.

"What do you think I should I say?" Sybil asked nervously. "She'll want to know why I was there, and I can't tell her the truth… not yet."

Edith shrugged, still feeling a bit stung that Sybil had questioned her loyalty, and said, "I'm not going to tell on you, but I'm afraid you'll have to think up your own lies."

Sybil sighed; yes, she thought to herself, it was one thing to ask her sisters to remain silent, but she couldn't expect them to invent falsehoods on her behalf. "You're right, Edith," she said. "I hope you know how much I appreciate you keeping my secret." She gave her sister a little hug, which Edith grudgingly accepted.

"Well, go on," Edith said, looking slightly embarrassed, "before someone sees us whispering and wonders why."

oooooooo

"Oh, Sybil dear!" said Cora, putting her book aside as her daughter entered the drawing room. "There you are. I was looking for you earlier. Where have you been?"

_How sly,_ Sybil thought to herself. _She poses the question so innocently, as if she didn't know _exactly _where I've been. At least, thank God, she doesn't know what I was doing there._

"I was visiting Branson," Sybil said, taking a seat and giving the words as flippant an air as she could manage.

"In the garage?" Cora prodded.

"No," she answered, cocking her head as if to say _'What difference does it make?'_ "At his cottage. I heard that he was sick and I went to see if he needed anything."

"That was very kind of you, dear," Cora said patronizingly. "But do you really think it's appropriate to be visiting servants in their private quarters?"

Sybil bit her tongue and for a moment she felt herself flush, remembering Tom's quiet groan and the unstudied jerking of his hips as he spilled himself onto her stomach. _Private quarters_, indeed_. _Taking a steadying breath, she shook those thoughts from her head and replied with a touch of casual defiance, "I don't see why not. We're friends."

"Oh, Sybil," said Cora, with a tone that said _Poor darling,_ _you are hopelessly naïve. _"Don't be silly. Branson's a nice man, but one isn't 'friends' with the servants."

"That's not true," said Sybil, feeling indignant. "You're friends with O'Brien, aren't you? And Papa with Bates?"

"That's different," said Cora firmly.

"How is it different?" Sybil asked. "They're servants too, aren't they?"

"It's different because Branson is a man and you are a woman," Cora said, very deliberately.

Oh, how well she knew it! Again, Sybil could scarcely believe that she was sitting in the drawing room with him mother placidly discussing the nature of relationships between men and women, all the while remembering the feeling of Tom's fingers pushing inside her, stretching her… her leg twitched at the memory.

"Matthew is a man and Mary is a woman," said Sybil, growing more defiant. "They're friends, aren't they?"

"Of course they are."

"And why is it that they can be friends and Tom and I can't?"

Sybil realized her mistake almost the moment she had said it, but there was no taking it back now, and acting as if it were significant would only make it worse. Unsurprisingly, Cora looked stunned.

"'Tom'?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "So he's 'Tom' now?"

"Well," said Sybil with a dismissive shrug, "he has a first name, doesn't he?"

Cora's expression had changed from sermonizing to alarmed. "Did he ask you to call him that?" she said, lowering her voice as if it were too terrible to say at a normal volume.

"No," said Sybil, truthfully. It had been a break from formality that she had chosen, a line that she had decided to cross. "But I don't see why I shouldn't."

Cora looked aghast. "Because it's too familiar!"

_Oh, Mama, _Sybil thought with exasperation. _If only you knew how "_familiar" _we really are…_

"Really, Mama," said Sybil, irritated. "He's worked here for six years; do you not think that's a long enough time to be on a first-name basis?"

"He could work here sixty years and he would still be a servant," said Cora gravely.

"Do you have to keep using that word?" Sybil said, wrinkling her nose in disgust at her mother's snobbishness. "Can't you at least say 'employee'?" Suddenly the jump from "servant" to "employee" seemed a large enough gulf to help her mother over; the gap between "employee" to "fiancé" – and then, quick on its heels, to "husband" – seemed nearly insurmountable.

"It doesn't matter _what_ word you use," Cora answered, shaking her head. "It doesn't change what he is."

"Which is what?" Sybil asked, exasperated. "Sub-human?"

"Of course not!" Cora exclaimed. "But there are _lines, _dear, and I'm afraid you're too naïve to see why they're needed."

Sybil looked down so that her mother would not see her eyes flashing with anger. She bristled at the accusation of naivety; what could be more naïve than to assume that there was an inherent difference in the worth of individuals purely because of who their parents were and what their wealth was? But she knew that if there were any hope of ever receiving her parents' blessing, she would have to hold her tongue in times like these. If her mother could not even accept the idea of she and Tom as friends, what hope was there of her accepting them as a married couple? Swallowing her pride and trying to quell a growing sense of hopelessness, she squared her shoulders a bit and looked back up at her mother calmly.

"I suppose you're right, Mama," she said diplomatically, not meaning a word of it and hoping only to end the conversation. "I guess I just don't think through things the same way you do." The words were double-edged; she knew her mother would take them as a compliment, but she added to herself – _and I hope I never shall. _

"Come here, dear," Cora said, holding her arms open conciliatorily. Sybil went to her reluctantly and let her mother put her arms around her, thinking bitterly to herself, _She still thinks I'm a child – that I can be intimidated with vague warnings and placated with hugs. _"I know you have lots of ideas about equality and social justice," Cora continued, saying the words "equality" and "social justice" as dismissively as if she were speaking about fairy tales and pirate treasure, "and I admire your passion. I just want you to be careful. It would be terrible if people got the wrong idea."

Sybil sighed and looked out the window across the broad green lawn. So her mother thought it would terrible. And she had so counted on _her _being the soft touch that would help to ease the blow for Papa.

She stood and moved to the window as her mother picked up her embroidery hoop and began stitching. "I'm going into Ripon tomorrow," Sybil said casually, "to see our dress-maker. I thought I might get a new frock for my birthday."

"Will Branson be taking you?" Cora asked, raising a slightly suspicious eyebrow at her daughter.

Sybil shrugged, as if it were of little difference to her who drove, knowing that nonchalance was key if her mother was not to suspect. "Him or Pratt," she said absently, referencing the family's other driver.

"No, Pratt's going to the station to pick up Mary and Sir Richard in the afternoon."

"Well, I suppose Edith could drive me, if she's not busy."

Cora laughed. "The last time Edith drove, she ran that poor cyclist into the ditch! Don't you remember?"

Sybil smiled, glad to lighten the mood. "So I heard," she said. "I'm glad I didn't see it; I'm sure I would've been very frightened."

"Edith's driving _is _frightening," Cora said, "but don't you dare tell her I said so."

"So I suppose Branson is my only option then," she said.

"Alright," Cora sighed, "but please be careful that you're not too friendly with him. I don't want him getting any ridiculous ideas."

"What on earth do you mean?" Sybil asked, feigning stupidity.

"I've seen how he looks at you, dear," Cora said. "I'm sure he'd be tremendously flattered to think that you favor him."

Sybil blushed. "That _is _a ridiculous idea," she said, her heart lurching in dismay.

"I'm glad you think so," Cora answered.

oooooooo

The next afternoon, Sybil appeared in the garage, ready for Branson to drive her into Ripon. The trip, of course, was mostly a ruse: she supposed that she would have to make a cursory visit to the dress maker in order to cover her bases, but mostly it was an excuse to be alone with Tom away from the prying eyes at Downton.

Branson smiled as she approached. "Hello," he said, and leaned in for a kiss, but Sybil shook her head and let herself into the backseat.

"Not here," she said as he shot her a quizzical look, climbing behind the wheel of the motor and starting the engine. "Someone might see."

They pulled down the driveway and Branson looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Something got you spooked?" he asked, a playful little smile playing on his face.

"Yes, actually," she said, Branson's smile disappearing at the words. "O'Brien told Mama that I was at your cottage yesterday. I don't know how she knows, but obviously someone saw."

"Christ," Branson exclaimed. "Do you think they suspect anything?" His face in the mirror was furrowed with worry.

"No," said Sybil, "at least Mama doesn't. I'm surprised none of the others have said anything about it to you, though."

Branson sighed. "Probably waiting for the right moment to play the trump card," he said bitterly. "And hoping to gather more evidence, no doubt."

"I'm afraid we'll have to be more careful," Sybil said. "We can't have anyone finding us out before we tell my parents. I don't want them hearing about it from anyone but us."

"I dare say they won't believe it if it comes from anyone but yourself," he said, then added, "and maybe not even then." He smiled at her in the mirror, a bit sadly.

"I still don't want to risk it," she said.

"I understand," he nodded. "And I think you're right."

"Can you pull over?" Sybil asked. "I'd like to get up front now that we're away from the house."

"I'll pull over for a kiss," Branson said, "but I think you'd better stay where you are. We might meet someone we know along the road, and they'd think it very strange to see you sitting up front with me."

He eased the car off the road and put it into park, then craned his neck back over the seat to meet her lips. She kissed him ardently, taking his face in her gloved hands and holding him to her even when he tried to pull away, afraid that their current position was too conspicuous. She parted her lips against his and slipped her tongue into his mouth: soft, wet, insistent, and he groaned a little and returned the kiss, before again trying to pull away. Again, she pulled him back to her, and he laughed a little against her lips – though his body was taking the situation much more seriously indeed – and said between kisses, "We can't - do this – here – sweetheart – someone – _mmm_ - might see."

"Then pull the car off the road," she said, undeterred.

But Branson shook his head and managed to extract himself from her. "Didn't we just get through saying we had to be more careful?" he asked, shifting the car into drive and pulling back onto the road.

"I don't think they'll come looking for us in the bushes and brambles," she said stubbornly. "If we can't be alone out here, we surely won't have any better chance of it at Downton."

"Then I guess we'd better tell them sooner rather than later," he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror, his expression grave.

Sybil sighed. "That's easy enough for you to say," she said softly.

"It's not easy for me at all!" Branson protested. "Frankly, I'd rather try my luck at smacking a bull on the arse than tell your father that I intend to deflower his youngest daughter."

Sybil actually blushed a little at this phrasing. "Well, I certainly wouldn't recommend that you put it like _that,"_ she said.

Branson shook his head. "Of course that's not what I'll say," he said, "but that's what he'll hear. That's what it'll boil down to, for him."

"Surely he'll give us both more credit than that," she said, though she wasn't sure she believed it.

"I'm not so sure," Branson said sadly. "And I _know _that he won't if he hears that we've been having private visits all this time. He'll think I've seduced you and that I'm just marrying you so I can finish the job."

"I'm afraid it wouldn't help our cause, to be sure," Sybil admitted.

"What did your mother say about you being at my cottage, by the way?"

Sybil's face fell, and Branson's heart sank at the sight of it. "Well," she said dourly, "she doesn't think we even ought to be friends, so I don't think it's much of a stretch to suppose she won't be thrilled at our engagement."

Branson sighed and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "Things aren't really shaping up the way we might've hoped, are they?"

Sybil sighed, too, and her silence was answer enough. They drove on for a ways, both wrapped in thought, before Branson spoke again.

"Sybil?" he said quietly.

"Yes, Tom?"

"We're going to make this work. I'm not giving up. Not now. Not ever."

Sybil smiled. "Me neither," she said.

oooooooooo

Branson had a good while to think while he waited on Sybil outside the dressmaker's in Ripon. He would've liked to see her excitement picking out fabrics and looking at patterns and scheming about designs – like she'd done all those years ago, with the pants – back when he'd first fallen in love with her, he thought wistfully - but knew very well that men were never welcome in such environments, at least not by the shopkeepers. And of course there was the ever-present class divide; what business could a chauffeur possibly have in a ladies dress shop? It would raise too many eyebrows, and so he waited.

To her credit, Sybil was as expedient as she thought she could reasonably be, wanting to be with Tom far more than she wanted a new dress. Returning to the car, he once again helped her into the backseat, and they were barely out of town when, to his shock, Sybil began clambering over the seat, struggling to navigate her skirts and landing rather gracelessly and with a bit of a thud on the front seat next to him. The car had drifted a bit towards the shoulder as this occurred, Branson's attention torn between this unexpected development and watching the road ahead of him, and he swerved it back rather abruptly, Sybil squealing in surprise as she slid into him, then giggling at his astonished expression.

"Well, hello there," she said coyly, placing her gloved hand softly on his thigh.

"Sybil, you're mad," said Branson, though he couldn't help but laugh a little himself, and his heart swelled with affection for the incorrigible, unflappable, daring woman beside him.

"I knew you wouldn't pull over to let me get up front," she said, adjusting her hat, "so I had to take matters into my own hands."

"You're very good at doing that, aren't you?" he asked, smiling at her determination.

"Didn't you find that out yesterday?" she purred, and she moved to kiss cheek, then his neck.

"Yes - very well, in fact," he said, groaning as she let her hand drift up his thigh to his crotch, as if to emphasize her point.

"Why don't we take the back roads?" she suggested deviously. "It'll take longer, but then again that's rather the point, isn't it?"

"I don't know that we should," Branson said ruefully, and Sybil pulled her hand away from where she had been teasing him to hardness through his trousers, looking at him with some surprise.

"It's just that," he paused and swallowed, "there's so much at stake – and now people are starting to suspect – and _God_, it's hard to resist you."

"Tom, I don't understand," said Sybil, genuinely confused at this rather rambling statement. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he said in a low voice, "that I don't think we should do all that anymore. Not until everything's settled."

Sybil was rather taken aback by this pronouncement, and in truth a little stung. She swallowed, and then said quietly, "Did I do something wrong? Yesterday, I mean. Did you… didn't you like it?"

"Oh, sweetheart," said Branson, "how can you even say that?"

"Well, I mean, I _thought _you did," she said, "but then again I'm just a clumsy virgin, so maybe I did it wrong."

Branson stopped the car quite abruptly and she could feel him looking at her, but she kept her gaze focused on her lap. She knew that she was being a bit ridiculous, but despite her forwardness and general air of self-assurance, a little part of her was very afraid that she would disappoint him – he had worshipped her from afar for so long, how could she ever hope to live up to the lofty ideal he had of her? Then also, there was a large part of her that was still very accustomed to getting her own way, that recoiled and rebelled at any obstacle placed before her, even though another part of her that knew that what he said made good sense – after all, she had proscribed it herself, the night she accepted him.

"Sybil, darlin', look at me," he said softly.

She did, reluctantly, and his eyes were very serious.

"I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life," he said firmly. "In every way possible. You have to know that."

"I do," she said, her eyes starting to tear slightly.

"And you've done nothing wrong; you couldn't possibly –" he struggled for the right words, and finally continued, frustrated, "What I mean to say is that I think you could slap and bite me and I'd like it, so long as it was you doing it." He smiled at her impishly, and she couldn't resist laughing a little herself.

"I promise never to slap you," she said, "though I can't promise that I won't – nibble."

Branson laughed and pulled her into a soft kiss. She relaxed against him, sighing against his cheek when he pulled away, holding his arms around her.

"So what you're saying, then," she said after a moment, "is that I can kiss you and that is all?"

She grinned at him then, having to admit that it was rather humorous to have her own words turned around.

"More or less," he said, smiling.

"Personally I'd prefer 'more,'" she said, "but I suppose if it's what you want to do…"

Branson shook his head. "Believe me, Sybil," he said, "it's a far cry from what I _want _to do. If it were as easy as that, I'd pull the car off some deserted road somewhere and show you what I _want _to do."

"Oh, why don't you?" she said, excitedly.

"You're very persistent, aren't you?" he asked, smiling but with a bit of a lower timbre creeping into his voice. In truth, her persistence and her apparent insatiability drove him quite wild with anticipation, and he gritted his teeth, determined to stick to his guns.

"I suppose I'd better get into the back again," she said, sighing.

"I wish you didn't have to," he said, but helped her down and waited until she was safely settled in the back seat before pulling the car back onto the road.

Sweet Sybil, complacent though she seemed, smiled deviously to herself as they rode on in mutual silence. After a moment, she leaned forward and ran her gloved index finger down the side of Branson's neck; he shivered and she pushed his stiff collar aside, then kissed her way up his neck to his ear. The car swerved when she pulled his earlobe between her lips and sucked on it softly; "Shit," Branson hissed, correcting the swerve, and Sybil smiled, feeling very wicked.

"Tom, are you alright?" she whispered into his ear. "You seem… distracted." She returned her attention to his neck, sucking at it sensually.

"Sybil," he said, "you're going to kill us both if you keep up like that."

"I don't know what you mean," she said innocently. "Besides… you didn't say _where _I could kiss you."

Branson couldn't help but chuckle. "My God," he said, "caught on a technicality. You know, I think you'd make a good politician yourself."

"I'm sure I'd be _very _corrupt," she teased.

"You don't know how sorry I am that I can't – ahem - further contribute to your delinquency," he said, keeping up the euphemism as she smiled and returned to her proper position against the backseat.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid" she replied, and then more seriously added, "I won't keep up in limbo much longer. I'd rather face Papa's wrath than your rejections."

"I hope you won't test my fortitude just to prove a point," he said, his playful tone masking a bit of real concern.

"Do you think I'd win?" she asked innocently.

"I know you would."

"That's not very sporting of you," she said, looking at him flirtatiously in the rearview mirror. "You should at least put up a fight."

"Is that a challenge?" he asked with a roguish smile.

Sybil smiled. "We'll see," she said.

oooooooooo

Author's note: Aha! The plot thickens. Will Sybil and Branson be able to keep their hands off each other? I wouldn't put money on it – but then again, they can't very well continue on like they have been, for a number of reasons. So what happens next? We'll see! Keep reading, and if you enjoy it, for the love of God, REVIEW!


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: Hello everyone, and thank you for your continued readership! As always, your lovely reviews provide much-needed encouragement and motivation. A couple of things I would like to address: **beyondgurl **pointed out that the Renault actually doesn't have a rearview mirror, to which I can only say, "D'oh!" I may at some point go back and correct that error (and also the one where I said Branson's waistcoat had three buttons; it's closer to six, I think), but for now I hope you'll excuse it and I will plead artistic license. ;) (I can't believe Branson never ran off the road – without a rearview mirror he must've been craning around to look at Sybil an awful lot!) A few of you also requested that I flesh things out a bit more in terms of Sybil and Branson making plans for their future. I'm afraid I may have to disappoint you on that score. I tried writing some in that vein, but I was bored writing it so I _know _you would've been bored reading it. Anyway, I hope that I will touch on those issues enough that it won't seem like I'm ignoring them completely, but I will have to point you towards some of the other S/B fics on this site if you're looking for an in-depth exploration of Branson's job search and etc. I started this fic without any real intentions of continuing it much past the first chapter; the fact that I am now at chapter 7 kind of astonishes me, and it certainly never would've happened if it weren't for your positive responses! My point is that my intention in writing this was never for it to be very plot-heavy; if there is anything that vaguely resembles a plot in all this, I'm doing well. Mostly I just wanted to add to the "S/B sexytimes" selection, (without it being _completely_ devoid of context or conflict, of course), considering the deplorable lack of non-AU/modern M-rated S/B fic. Hopefully I have succeeded on that front. Alright, enough yammering. On with the story.

oooooooooooooo

Several days passed uneventfully, during which Sybil and Branson saw very little of each other, save for a few brief visits and stolen kisses. Their hope, of course, was that whatever party or parties had remarked on Sybil's visit to the cottage would lose patience or interest in spying, though privately, Branson thought that rather unlikely, knowing as he did the characters of some of his fellow staff. Regardless, Lavinia and Matthew's wedding planning provided a fair amount of excitement and distraction for most of the house – both upstairs and down – and as such Sybil felt confident that her mother, at least, would be too occupied drawing up guest lists and arranging seating charts and planning the meals with Mrs. Patmore to notice where Sybil was or what she was doing.

Branson, for his part, was expecting two letters in the post any day now, letters that would either hasten or delay their plans: the first from his mother, whom he had informed of their engagement along with a request that Sybil live with her while the banns were read; the second from the _Dublin Times, _where he had applied to be a columnist-slash-reporter. Every day that passed with no news was another day of restless anticipation; sometimes Branson felt as if he had spent his entire adult life _waiting _for things to happen_. _The inaction was growing maddening, and Sybil and Branson both were becoming more and more anxious to reveal their relationship to her family once and for all. Compounding this impatience was, of course, their newly reinstated _kissing only _rule, which they had not yet had a proper chance to test the viability of, but which almost certainly promised to be an impetus for hastening the marriage.

Bored and ill content, Sybil had arranged for Dragon to be saddled and had Anna help her into her riding clothes, as the weather was unseasonably warm. In truth, it was simply another ruse to see Tom; it was his half-day off work and this excuse would take her far out of sight of the house and servants. She had scrawled a note to him instructing him when and where to wait for her, leaving it inside the pages of a book he had left in the garage, and she prayed that he had found it.

He had, and he now sat waiting for her beneath the shade of an old oak tree several kilometers from the house, in a secluded little glen that Sybil had selected specifically for the purpose of a private visit. He had removed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, folding his discarded garments and laying them carefully next to the base of the tree. This accomplished, he had just opened his book and began reading when he heard the sound of horse's hooves. Looking up, he smiled as he saw Sybil approaching over the ridge on Dragon; she cut a fine figure on horseback, looking very regal and proud in the saddle, her complexion glowing from the exercise, and Branson thought that she had seldom looked prettier (but then again, he thought that almost every time he saw her).

"Fancy meeting you here," he said, standing and putting his hands in his pockets, approaching her with exaggerated nonchalance, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, what a coincidence!" she said with exaggerated surprise, then broke into a grin herself, amused at their affectation of an "accidental meeting." Taking off her riding hat and gloves, she handed them down to him and he turned and placed them carefully on top of his folded jacket. "Help me down?" she asked demurely, although they both knew she was perfectly capable of dismounting on her own.

"Certainly, m'lady," he said, smiling at the formal address; at times they amused themselves by slipping back into their roles of the Lady and the Chauffeur. It had been so long since they had used those formal means of address that they now seemed ridiculous, comical.

Sybil was riding sidesaddle and shifted so that she was facing him straight-on. He reached up to put his hands on each side of her waist while she wrapped her arms around his shoulders; then, lifting her gently up and away from the horse, he kept his body close to hers and she let her torso slide slowly down his as he lowered her to the ground. He shuddered and felt his pulse pick up at the contact, and then she looked up at him, her arms still circled around his neck and his hands at her waist, her cheeks flushed and the hair around her face coming loose from her braid. When she spoke, it was in a low whisper and with a little smile, one simple word: "Hello."

Perhaps she did not intend for this greeting to be seductive, but it was just the same, and Branson felt his body respond. Dimly, he thought to himself "_Already? You haven't even kissed her yet, you stupid prig,"_ before deciding to amend that situation and lowering his mouth to hers by way of greeting. They were both intent, not having kissed like this in many days, and he pulled her closer against his body when she moaned softly against his lips, threading her fingers into his hair. Meanwhile, he fought to keep his hands at her waist, desperately trying to remind himself that _he _had suggested putting the reins on things.

"It's alright Tom," Sybil said softly, sensing his hesitation. "I know we said we wouldn't do anything but kiss until everything's settled, but surely it can't hurt anything if you touch me a _little_."

"I'd like to believe that," Branson said, his voice less composed than hers, "but I'm afraid _one _of us, at least, has to be firm."

Sybil smiled wickedly and tilted her hips against his, feeling him hard against her thigh. "Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that," she whispered, running her hands down his body and stopping at the small of his back, pulling his hips against hers more soundly. "If I'm not terribly mistaken, you seem to have that taken care of."

Branson felt ready to forget all the rules at this kind of talk – he'd seen a grassy outcropping on the walk here that would probably do just fine in place of a bed – but instead he simply gave a low sort of little growl and kissed her again, gripping her waist tightly. She smiled against his lips, feeling rather triumphant, and it was some moments before he pulled away again. She loved her effect on him, finding it heady and powerful; it seemed as if every time they kissed he was instantly, insistently hard, and knowing this, a wicked little part of her was curious to see just how far she could push him.

"I want to show you something," she said, her eyes twinkling, and she gently removed his hands from her waist before backing up a bit and beginning to unbutton the waistband of her skirt.

"You can't be serious," Branson said, dumbfounded, glancing around nervously; this location was as secluded as any on the property, but nonetheless they were still outdoors. With that in mind, he was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed when she dropped the garment to the ground and stepped out of it, realizing then that beneath her long skirt, she was not wearing the stockings and garters and knickers that he had expected, but a pair of camel-colored, tight-fighting trousers.

"You're – you're wearing trousers," he said, running a hand through his hair, surprised and a bit confused.

"They're called riding breeches, actually," Sybil said, smiling at his reaction. "Coco Chanel's started wearing them, you know."

There was a beat, and then Branson said, "…Who?", cocking his head.

Sybil laughed and said, "Nevermind that. Papa doesn't know I have them because he wouldn't approve, but women are starting to ride astride now, and obviously you can't do _that _in a skirt."

Branson cleared his throat, his eyes glued to her legs.

"Well?" Sybil asked, after a moment. "…What do you think?"

"I – " Branson began, raking his eyes over her as he spoke, or rather, attempted to speak. He was accustomed to seeing her in her flowing skirts and loose blouses, or perhaps her rather severe nurse's uniform; now, standing before him in her smart little jacket, riding boots, and "breeches," each piece precisely fitted and figure-hugging, he was given a clearer idea of her body than he had ever gotten, and he found himself flustered and aroused. Then she struck one of her triumphant little poses, as she had when she had debuted her harem pants, and she was just so damn _sexy _that he couldn't seem to find the right words to say. Clearing his throat, he started again, "You look –" _gorgeous beautiful delicious amazing,_ all correct and yet all too trite, and he had to chuckle at his own inarticulateness. Finally, taking a deep breath, he said, "I like them. Very much." Simple and to-the-point; Branson had never been much for poetry, anyway.

"Are you sure they're not too tight across the back?" she asked, turning and looking coyly over her shoulder at him. Branson bit the inside of his cheek and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hoping to take some of the pressure off his cock, and he would have seen her smiling if his eyes hadn't been glued to her arse. "Ahem… no," he said distractedly, shaking his head. "Not too tight." Sybil grinned and closed the distance between them, deciding that she had toyed with him enough for now; she enjoyed teasing him but not _torturing _him, and she put her arms around his waist and tucked her head against his chest.

Drawing his hands out of his pockets, he circled his arms around her back and for a moment only hugged her. But then, his resolve faltering, he said, his voice low and husky, "You know, you're probably right. It can't hurt anything if I touch you a _little._"

Sybil was in no mood to quibble over semantics, which was fortunate, as 'Touching her a _little_' was something of an understatement. Running his hands down her back to cup her bottom in his hands, he gave it a decidedly lusty squeeze, punctuating it with a soft, wet kiss to the spot just below her earlobe; she sighed and arched against him, rubbing her hands up and down his biceps, solid and warm beneath his shirt.

After a few moments during which Tom fondled her ass contentedly, Sybil put her hands up to his chest and with a little gesture of her head towards the woods said, "Come on."

Branson looked at her quizzically, but took her proffered hand as she led him past the tree line and away from the open field until they came to a small clearing, mossy and with a dusting of wildflowers. The sparse canopy overhead cast dappled sunlight on the area, and Sybil led them to the base of another large oak before directing him to sit, his back leaned against the trunk of the tree. Then, to his great surprise, she dropped to her knees in front of him, scooting along on them until she was hovering over his lap. She did not lower herself to sitting yet, but took his face in her hands and gave him a deep, open-mouthed kiss; he slipped his tongue past her lips softly and as he did so, she sank down fully onto his lap, feeling very bold and very powerful. He moaned against her mouth when their lower bodies connected, loving the feeling of her thighs locked around his, her breasts against his chest, the weight of her body pressing into him.

"This is the other good thing about riding breeches," Sybil whispered, kissing his neck as she unbuttoned his shirt. "You could never do this in a skirt." Branson moaned and for a moment he wondered what he could've possibly done to deserve a woman who was not only beautiful, smart, fierce, brave, funny – but also so damn_ naughty,_ and he told himself not to grind against her. Sybil, as usual, was less restrained, and she wiggled a little in his lap; he pushed the fingers of one hand roughly into the hair at the nape of her neck and kissed her harder as she ran her hands across his chest, idly toying with his nipples. She seemed to respond to the note of desperation in his attentions, and she nipped at his lips a bit less than gently, kissing him hard, almost frantically, scarcely giving either of them a chance to breathe. Branson thought to himself that whatever idiot men said that women shouldn't wear trousers must've never contemplated _this. _

"I think I owe this Kiki Chanel a thank you note," he said breathlessly as Sybil sucked at his neck.

Sybil laughed distractedly and said, "It's Coco Chanel, silly," but she became serious again when he moved his hands down to her arse and circled her hips on top of him, making her breath catch.

"This_ is_ wonderful, isn't it?" she whispered then. "Kissing like this?" She dropped her voice lower still, and murmured against his ear, "God - I love feeling you between my legs. I know I shouldn't say so - but I do."

"Oh, Christ," Branson rasped, helplessly, knowing that he was completely and utterly under her power now; her words had the heady burn of strong liquor. "Sybil –" If he had planned on continuing the sentence, those words were lost against her mouth as she kissed him again voraciously, her fingernails ghosting over his stomach and making the muscles there twitch.

When she pulled away to catch her breath, she spoke again. "Tom," she said quietly, "I know you've been with other women, but –"

"None since I met you," he said, interrupting her and shaking his head.

"No, it's alright," she said, "I just wondered –" there was a long pause while she gathered her courage, then said, "did you ever try it like this?"

Branson was gobsmacked by this frank question, and for a moment he was silent, his chest rising and falling heavily as she studied his face earnestly. Then, he shook his head, and answered honestly: "No. Not like this." The few sexual experiences he had had prior to coming to Downton had all been rather hurried, furtive affairs – brief encounters with little foreplay and less emotion. He had never felt bold enough to propose a different position, and neither of his partners (for there were only two) had ever tried.

"Do you think you'd like to?" she asked, her voice very quiet but with a touch of flirtation creeping back into it.

Branson took her face in his hands and kissed her roughly. "_God, yes,"_ he growled against her mouth between kisses, and she ground her hips against him deliberately, rocking against his hard length with studied movements.

His long fingers were working at the buttons of her blouse while he kissed her, and aroused as she was, she could not resist parting from him for just long enough to say softly, half-excited, half-teasing, "Does this mean you're abandoning your 'kissing only' injunction?"

He paused for a moment before continuing, and said, "You never said _where _I could kiss you," his voice low and his eyes intent. His eyes and his voice made a shiver run down her spine; somehow she understood his meaning and suddenly she was unbearably eager at the thought of him trailing kisses down her stomach, pulling her riding breeches down past her hips, putting his mouth on her, flicking his tongue between her legs, sucking softly…

Her pulse was humming too quickly for cleverness now, and instead of coming up with any words that might break the spell, she instead pulled the web tighter around them when she said, very low, "Was there some place in particular you had in mind?"

Branson was just contemplating rolling them over and pulling those wonderful breeches down past her hips and showing her exactly _where in particular_ when the sound of movement in the undergrowth made them both jump in alarm. Looking around anxiously, Sybil sighed heavily in a mix of relief and agitation when she spotted the source of the noise: Isis, who came trotting up to them, tail wagging and tongue flopping. She barked once, excitedly, as if this were some wonderful hide-and-seek game that she had just won.

"Well," Branson laughed shakily, "at least it's only the dog. I don't think _she'll_ betray us, anyway."

"She didn't mind interrupting us, though," Sybil said, more than a touch annoyed. "Ugh," she said, gently pushing Isis away as she attempted to lick Sybil's face. "Go _home_, Isis. Can't you see we're busy?"

"It's just as well," said Branson gently, smoothing her hair and kissing her softly. "This isn't the time, nor the place. God, I wish it were, though."

Sybil grumbled as she stood up and Branson smiled quietly to himself; he had been keen to show her what other places he wanted to kiss – and suck and nip and lick, he figured they were all in the same family, after all – to put his mouth on her, to taste her, to have her thread her fingers through his hair and tug at his scalp, to make her moan and tremble. Her disappointment was almost palpable, and it matched his own, but Branson took some solace in knowing that she seemed to want him as much as he wanted her, and told himself that it really was for the best, after all. As desperate as he was to have her, there was still a certain note of discord in these clandestine meetings; each one made him more anxious than ever to make her his wife, not just in deed but in name, so that there would never again be a wrong time or place.

"Are we destined to be constantly stymied?" Sybil asked as they made their way back to the oak where they had met.

"Sometimes it feels that way, doesn't it?" said Branson, handing her hat and gloves to her and picking up his waistcoat and jacket and putting the former back on. "But I promise you this, at least: we'll be alone well enough on our wedding night, even if I have to nail the door shut."

"Let's hope it won't come to that," Sybil laughed, donning her hat and gloves, then pulling her skirt back on. This accomplished, she went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, kissing him softly.

"I want to tell them soon," she said after a moment, resolutely. "I've been waiting for the right time, but that's foolish, really – there will never be a 'right time,' so we might as well get it over with. Besides, I can't go on like this. It's going to drive me mad."

"I think I'm already there," Branson said with a dry little laugh.

Isis barked again, darting around Dragon's legs where he stood, attempting to graze and becoming annoyed. Sybil sighed and moved away from Branson, taking the horse's reins in her hand and said, "Isis makes him jumpy, so I think I'll just walk him back to the stables. Will you walk with me?"

Branson threaded his fingers through her free hand and smiled. "Always," he said.

oooooooooooo

Author's note: If you don't review, I don't update!


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: What the…? This damn thing keeps trying to develop a plot on me, despite my resistance to the idea. (I know, I know, after I JUST wrote an author's note in the last chapter about how I didn't really intend for this to have much plot… still, I always feel a need to balance smuttier chapters by following them with something a little more plotty.) Anyway, there's no smut here, but I hope you'll read it anyway. The next chapter will make up for it, I promise!

* * *

><p>About a week or so later, Sybil entered the garage to find Branson seated on his workbench reading a letter. Her heart fluttered a bit, wondering if it was the news they'd been hoping for, but a look at his face quickly told her that he was a bit less than thrilled.<p>

"Well?" she said nervously, nodding at the letter in his hands. "Is that from your mother, or the paper?"

"I've had one from both, actually," he said, picking up another envelope from the bench beside him and holding it up. "Which do you want to hear about first?"

Sybil bit her lip and shifted her weight from one leg to the other restlessly. "You don't look happy," she said. "Are they both bad news?"

"Not _bad_, per se," he said, shaking his head. "Not quite what we wanted, but not hopeless."

Sybil sighed. "Tell me what your mother said first," she decided.

"Well, the good news is she's agreed to let you stay with her while the banns are read."

"That is good news. Is there bad news, too?"

"Not exactly," he said, " – it's just that she didn't really couch the good news in very kind words, that's all."

"Oh," said Sybil softly, feeling a little deflated at this revelation. "She said she doesn't approve, then?" He had warned her not to be disappointed if they were met with some skepticism or even a bit of thinly veiled hostility from his family, but she had nonetheless allowed herself to hope that _his _relatives, at least, might be more welcoming than hers.

"She said it a good bit more colorfully than that," he said with a sad smile, "but close enough." Then, seeing her disappointment, he added hastily, "Now don't get discouraged. She's just surprised, I think - and I can't say that she shouldn't be. It's not a very nice letter, but don't get me wrong, she's a good woman and she has a big heart. She'll love you, once she knows you. She's just stubborn is all, and she can be - rather brusque at times, when she's upset."

Sybil smiled faintly. "That sounds vaguely familiar," she said, teasing him a little.

Branson gave a small smile, too, but then sighed and said, "She thinks we're being very foolish. I figured she'd think so, but it's still hard words to hear from your own mam."

Sybil sat down beside him on the small bench and threaded her fingers through his. "Well, I don't suppose she's entirely wrong," she said gently. "You can't argue that we're not being a least a _little _foolish."

Branson chuckled. "Maybe we are," he conceded. "But even so - it'd be nice to have support from _someone._"

"I know," she agreed. "But they'll come around. You said so yourself."

"Eventually," he agreed, giving her hand a little squeeze. "In any case, she took it better than _your_ parents will, I think."

"I don't doubt it," Sybil said. "In fact, I'm sure her letter will look positively effusive compared to what my father will say." There was a beat before she added, teasingly, "You know, we could still just run away. I won't leave a note this time; it'll be up to Mary and Edith to explain what's happened."

"I think that would be a fine comeuppance for their foiling us the first time, don't you?" Branson joked. He knew that she was not serious about attempting to elope again; they were both firm on wanting to reveal their relationship to her parents in person. But that didn't mean that either of them was looking forward to it, or had very high hopes about how it would go.

"Well, what did the paper say?" Sybil asked, resting her head on Tom's shoulder.

Branson sighed heavily. "They'd already filled the position when they got my application," he said. "_But_ the caveat is that they liked my work so much, they'll keep my information on file and I'll be next in line when they're hiring again."

"And when will that be?" Sybil asked anxiously, praying that it wouldn't be long. They had agreed that they would not tell her parents until Tom had a definite job offer, but every day that passed made her more and more impatient; sometimes she was so restless, she felt ready to jump out of her own skin.

"That's the thing," said Branson forlornly, pulling that letter from its envelope and reading aloud from it. "'We anticipate that if the unrest and violence continue to escalate, we will shortly be in need of additional staff, at which point we will gladly contact you with an offer of employment.'"

"Oh, how horrible," said Sybil, furrowing her brow. "Is our future to depend on conditions worsening in Ireland, then?"

"It looks that way," Branson said reluctantly.

"So if we move to a peaceful Ireland, you'll have no job and we'll be destitute," she said, agitated, thinking out loud. "One the other hand, if there's rioting on the streets, you'll have work, but _I'll _have no solace. If I get work as a nurse, I'll tie my stomach in knots whenever a new patient comes in, wondering if it's you."

"I'm going to be a journalist, not a soldier," Branson said gently, trying to reassure her.

"There's not much difference during a revolution though, is there?"

"It might not come to that," he said. "And if it does - if things start to get dangerous for civilians –"

"And journalists," she added hastily.

"And journalists," he repeated, "then we won't stay. I'd never put you in harm's way, Sybil."

"I know that," Sybil said. "But it's not _me _I'm worried about." She looked at him very earnestly, and her eyes were full of apprehension; for the most part, she did not allow herself to dwell on her doubts, but in her darker moments the realist in her had to admit that their future together was tremendously uncertain.

"Oh, sweetheart," Branson sighed, kissing her forehead, moved by her concern for him. His dogged determination would not allow him to admit defeat before he even tried, but he was no longer the same relentlessly idealistic person he had been in years prior, and he had no delusions of staying in Ireland just to prove a point. Once upon a time, he would've been willing to sacrifice his own happiness and even his freedom for the sake of a cause. But Sybil was his cause now, her happiness and safety the motivation of everything he did, and if they could not be happy and safe in Ireland, then they would find somewhere they could.

"Try not to worry," he said softly, taking her face in his hand. "Everything will work out. You'll see." In his heart, though, he was less than sure, and he said a silent prayer that had become something of a mantra for him lately: _Please God, don't let me disappoint her. _

Sybil kissed him in response, but this kiss was different than many of the ones they had shared before: a little desperate and more than a little sad. Branson hurt to think of all the things she was giving up for him, and wondered – not for the first time – if he could ever hope to make her happy enough to not regret it.

Sybil rested her forehead against his for a moment, letting the silence stretch out between them. Finally, she spoke. "I have to go get ready for dinner," she said. "They'll be wondering where I am."

* * *

><p>"Sybil, dear," said Robert that night at dinner, "I've had a letter today from your Aunt Rosamund."<p>

"Yes?" said Sybil, glancing up from her plate, wondering – and dreading – what a letter from Aunt Rosamund could have to do with _her. _

"Yes, she's invited you to come and stay with her in London." Robert's tone was cheerful and casual, as if he expected this to be pleasing news.

Sybil swallowed a bite of steak heavily and tried to find a dismissive and yet still diplomatic answer. "Oh?" she said breezily. "That was kind of her. What about Mary and Edith? Are they not invited as well?"

"Of course they are also welcome, if they wish," said Robert, glancing at his other daughters, though it was clear that the invitation was mostly aimed at Sybil, and she had a sinking feeling that she knew why.

Mary did not bother to disguise her displeasure at the idea, wrinkling her nose and saying, "No thank you. I think I've already seen enough of London's social scene to last me a lifetime."

"And what about you, Edith?" Robert asked, though he did not seem particularly interested in her answer.

Edith shrugged, no doubt feeling slighted by the apparent fact that she was an afterthought to the matter. "I suppose I might go," she said noncommittally, a bit of an indignant huff in her tone.

"How long does she propose that we stay?" Sybil asked. A few days could be tolerable, perhaps – although she would avoid it if at all possible – but any suggestion of an extended stay would obviously belie the true intention of the scheme: to throw Sybil into the path of London's eligible bachelors, with the hopes that one would make her an offer. Now that the war was over, she had been expecting this to happen sooner or later; up until now her parents had been content enough to indulge her nursing aspirations and apparent disinterest in marriage. But now that life had settled back into its normal rhythm, they seemed to be growing restless again, anxious to see her "settled." With Mary engaged, they had turned their scheming towards Sybil; poor neglected Edith was seen as having fewer prospects and as such was not the focus of their matchmaking plans.

Robert smiled a little and said nonchalantly, "As long as it takes, I suppose."

Sybil put her fork down and looked pointedly at her father. "As long as _what _takes?" she asked, perturbed, already knowing the answer but wanting to make him admit it.

Cora laughed and gave Robert a mock-scolding look for being so obvious about the purpose of the proposed visit; she had warned him to be subtle and present it more as a vacation than a quest towards marriage, but he had stubbornly said that there was no use pretending it was something it wasn't, as Sybil was bound to figure it out anyway. "Well," he laughed, "I'm sure you can guess that she has some ideas of matchmaking in mind."

Mary scoffed. "Do you really think Aunt Rosamund is the best person to turn to for romantic advice?" she said scornfully, no doubt thinking of how her aunt had advised _her _in the past.

Robert gave this barbed comment a warning raised eyebrow before turning to Sybil and said, "So, Sybil, what do you say? I know you're an independent woman, but don't you think it's time we found you a husband?"

"'We'?" Sybil repeated, feeling indignant but endeavoring to keep her voice calm. "I wasn't aware that husband-hunting was a group sport."

"I'm afraid it always has been, darling," Cora said, "at least for our kind of people, anyway." She gave her daughter a smile that she intended to be sympathetic but that Sybil read as simpering, and she bristled at the mention of "our kind of people." Not for the first time, she felt like a stranger in a strange land, even within her own home. _At least when I get to Ireland I'll already be used to the feeling_, she thought bitterly.

"I'm sure I can find a husband on my own," Sybil said, her voice even but firm, though she cut at her steak a bit more vigorously than was necessary.

"I don't doubt it," Robert said amiably, "but I dare say you won't find him at Downton." He and Cora both chuckled at this, and Mary and Edith shot each other knowing looks, Mary hiding a smile behind her wine glass. Sybil looked down, flushing and feeling her breath quicken, and shoved another bite of steak into her mouth to keep herself from saying something stupid.

"Sometimes the right man is closer than you think," Edith offered, feeling sorry for her sister's predicament.

"Sometimes," Cora said, "but not often, I'm afraid. Why, I had to leave the country to find mine!" She and Robert exchanged little smiles.

"Perhaps Sybil will marry a foreigner, too," Mary said innocently, arching an eyebrow at her youngest sister.

Robert laughed. "I'm sure we can find an Englishman that will do just fine," he said, taking a sip of wine. "God knows the war claimed some of the best of them, but I'm sure there're still a handful of eligible bachelors in London, even now."

"Oh, but wouldn't it be exciting to have a bit of foreign blood in the family?" Mary went on, enjoying the game. "Perhaps – oh, I don't know, no one _too _exotic – maybe a Scotsman - or an Irishman, even."

"Or a Turk," Edith said, not wanting her father to linger too long on the allusion to Irishmen and unable to resist the jab at her sister.

"Or God forbid, an American," Cora added, poking fun at herself, and everyone but Sybil laughed.

How badly she wanted to tell them, _As a matter of fact, I _am_ marrying an Irishman, and he's the best man I've ever known. And by the way, Papa, I _did _find him at Downton, and oh yes, he just so happens to be our chauffeur. _But she said nothing.

"You look awfully dour, Sybil," Cora commented, noting her daughter's withdrawn demeanor. "I know how much you resent being told what to do, but don't think of it that way. No one's pressuring you into anything, isn't that right, Robert?"

"No, certainly not," he said glibly. "I should hope all my daughters know they are free to marry as they wish." Of course, if he had imagined for even a second that his daughter's choice of husband might be a penniless Irish socialist, he never would've said such a thing.

"At least say you'll consider it, dear," Cora said. "I know you've been bored since the war ended, and it will give you something to do. Besides, Edith can come with you if she likes, and you'll have fun together."

Sybil looked at her mother blankly, feeling incredulous and wondering what world her mother lived in, in which she imagined that she and Edith ever had fun together, or that either of them were the type that saw balls and dinners and concerts with large groups of strangers as anything other than a chore.

"Alright," she said flatly.

"Wonderful," said Robert, looking pleased. "When shall I tell her to expect you?"

"I mean, 'alright, I'll consider it,'" Sybil clarified. "I want to be at Downton for my birthday, and I don't want to go before Matthew and Lavinia's wedding." With any luck, she would be in Ireland with Tom long before her parents had a chance to press the issue any further; Sybil could think of few things more loathsome than the idea of being expected to flirt and dance and make small talk with strangers, far away from Downton and Tom, keeping up the farce of being Lord Grantham's dutiful daughter. She _had _been the dutiful daughter, once, but she was determined now to be selfish and foolish and obstinate, or whatever else they were likely to term her choice – once they finally, _finally _learned of it, of course. That day couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

><p>That night the girls readied for bed in Mary's room, where they had adjourned to have Anna help them out of their evening wear. Mary was decidedly amused by the evening's conversation.<p>

"You at least have to admit the irony of it," she said to Sybil. "I nearly spit out my drink when he said you wouldn't find a husband at Downton."

"I'm afraid no one will be laughing when he finds out that I already _have_," Sybil said tartly.

"When will you tell them?" Edith asked. "It's been over a month already."

Sybil sighed heavily. "As soon as Tom has a job lined up," she answered. "It shouldn't be long now."

"Oh, so is that the reason for the delay?" Mary asked. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."

"Of course not," Sybil said indignantly. "This isn't something I decided on a whim, you know. He proposed to me years ago and I've kept him waiting all this time. I would've accepted him sooner but I never wanted to upset Mama and Papa - and Granny, and you two."

"Really, darling," Mary said patronizingly, "that was very noble of you, but you can't shape your life around what you think will make your family happy."

"I'm glad you think so," Sybil said, "since I'm sure no one will be happy when they find out." She sat down on Mary's bed and unconsciously pouted a bit, feeling annoyed and melancholy.

"I'm glad you've thought it over, at least," Edith said. "I was afraid you'd go through with it just to make a point, even if you were having doubts."

"I've never been surer about anything in my life," Sybil said, looking up with eyes flashing, her defiant spirit rising at the smallest suggestion of a challenge.

"I have to say, Sybil, I admire your audacity," said Mary, smiling a little at her sister's stubbornness. "But you'll have to forgive me when I say that I don't think you know quite what you're getting into."

"I know very well that you think I'm throwing my life away," Sybil said, her tone exasperated. "You don't have to constantly belabor the point."

"I never said that," Mary insisted. "If you love him and he loves you than you have a better chance at happiness than most couples, regardless of your circumstances. But there's a great deal more to being married than loving someone. The world would be a much simpler place if were as easy as all that. Love alone can't keep a roof over your head, nor food on the table; that's all I'm saying."

"Are you an expert on marriage now?" Edith asked sarcastically.

"Of course not," Mary shot back, "but I dare say I know more about it than you."

Edith flushed and Sybil was afraid that an argument was imminent, but instead Edith simply stood, squaring her shoulders, and said coldly, "I'm going to bed now. Goodnight, Sybil," and left the room, saying no more to Mary. Anna, having finished helping all of the girls undress, asked if there was anything else they needed before also saying goodnight and making her departure as well.

"I know it won't be easy," Sybil continued after the others had left. "Papa may not give us any money – I mean, he _probably _won't, and Tom wouldn't want to have to depend on it, anyway; he's far too proud for that. His family may not like me - and maybe I won't like _them. _Maybe I'll hate Ireland and want to come home. Maybe the roof will leak and we'll be poor and hungry and I'll burn everything I try to cook. There are a thousand things that could go wrong, but I don't care about all that - because at least it will be _my choice. _At least I'll be married to the person I love and not someone's rich cousin, or fat uncle, or ancient family friend."

"Spoken like a true idealist," Mary said, but not unkindly. "I do wish you well, Sybil, really I do. No one will be more pleased than me if you manage to prove everyone wrong."

"But you doubt that I will," Sybil said.

"I do," said Mary honestly. "The odds are certainly against you. You know there's a reason that more aristocrats don't run off with their servants, and it's not because none of them are smart or kind or handsome."

"I think it would be cowardly not to try, just because everyone says it won't work. No one goes into a marriage with any guarantees."

"Indeed," Mary said dryly. "Then again, you know what they say: it's a fine line between courage and stupidity."

"I need _someone _to believe in me, Mary," Sybil said, her voice small and sad. "Lately I feel like the whole world is against us."

Mary stood up from the stool that she had been perched on and walked towards the bed, sitting beside Sybil and wrapping an arm around her gently. "I won't lie to you, darling, and I can't say that I think you're making the best decision. But if anyone can succeed under such impossible circumstances, it's you."

Sybil knew that this was as close to a vote of confidence as she was likely to get from anyone, so she tried to take it to heart and hold on to it, to remember in her darker moments. "Thank you, Mary," she said, then added, "I should go to bed now." She stood and moved towards the door.

"Are you still going into Ripon tomorrow with Branson?" Mary asked, climbing under the covers.

"Yes," Sybil nodded. "My dress should be ready now, so we're going to pick it up."

Mary sighed. "I don't suppose I need to tell you not to do anything stupid. God knows it will be scandal enough for you to marry the chauffeur; we'll never hear the end of it if you wind up giving birth to a ten pound baby four months after the wedding." She smiled a little, her comment half-teasing, half-serious.

Sybil returned a small smile and nodded. "Don't worry about me, Mary," she said, turning off the light as she exited the room. "I can take care of myself."

As she walked down the hall to her bedroom, she said a silent prayer that it was true.

* * *

><p>Author's note: OMG, angst and whatnot. No worries, there are happy times ahead! Sybil and Branson are going on a date, y'all! Awww. And there will be smut. So look forward to that.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: I don't really use Tumblr (don't have any account or anything), but I'd like to thank **thelastcountess **for listing this fic as one of her Friday Fic Recommendations. I am deeply flattered! Speaking of Tumblr, from time to time I will come across a not-so-nice comment about a fic on there, to which I would just like to say, if you don't like something, don't read it, and move on to something that's more your cup of tea. God knows I've read a lot of fic that wasn't really my bag, but I'd never dream of mocking anyone else's efforts. It makes me sad to see negative comments, even if they're not about _my _fic. Anyway, that being said, big thanks to everyone who continues to read this and loyally review each chapter. You are the only reason that this fic continues; I don't write for my own sake!

* * *

><p>Sybil was in a decidedly better mood the next day, still troubled over Tom's letters but happy for the chance to leave Downton and be alone with him, even if it was only for the afternoon. That would have been treat enough, to be sure, but Tom had informed her that he had planned a surprise for her, and with that in mind she had fairly skipped down to the garage, eager to find out what the day had in store.<p>

Now, not far from the house, Tom was turning onto a side road and Sybil felt her pulse pick up in excitement. "Where are we going?" she asked, but Branson just shook his head and said, "You'll see."

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a small cottage that Sybil thought she recognized. "Isn't this the gamekeeper's cottage?" she asked, as Branson pulled the car around the back of the house so that it wasn't visible from the road.

"It _was_," he said, smiling playfully as he turned off the engine and got out of the car, opening Sybil's door and helping her down. "But you know he got married last month and moved to Brighton, and your father's not replaced him yet."

"So you're saying the cottage is vacant?" Sybil broke into a wide smile; they rarely risked visits at _his _cottage since they had been spotted, and she was delighted at the prospect of having four walls around them with no possibility of detection or interruption.

"It is," he nodded, reaching into the back seat and pulling out a small basket, a few blankets, two pillows, and a bucket of ice with a champagne bottle in it.

"Are we having a picnic, then?" she asked, following Branson onto the back stoop, where he set down some of the items he was carrying and pulled a small piece of wire from his pocket.

"We are," he confirmed, smiling and fiddling with the lock for a moment; finally they heard the bolt click and the door swung open. "Don't tell Lord Grantham," he whispered, giving her a soft kiss, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Sybil laughed as she preceded him into the house, saying, "Really Tom, if you're going to be fired for anything, I seriously doubt that it will be for breaking into the gamekeeper's cottage."

Sybil entered the empty house slowly, with Branson close behind her carrying their supplies. The afternoon sun was streaming in through the windows, giving the small space a feeling of warmth despite its emptiness.

"You mean he took the furniture?" Sybil asked, looking around. Not even a single chair remained.

"It was a wedding present from your father," Branson explained.

Sybil laughed mirthlessly at this. "I wonder what he'll give _you _as a wedding present," she said.

"I'll consider it present enough if he doesn't disown you," Branson said, but not wanting to dwell on grim possibilities, he quickly changed the subject.

"I know it's not exactly Le Maison Bleu, or whatever other fancy place posh people eat," Branson said, setting down their things and smiling as he spread out a blanket underneath one of the windows, "but it's about the best I could do, given the circumstances."

"I think it's _wonderful,_" Sybil said, genuinely touched at his effort to arrange a proper date, and as pleased as if it _had _been the finest restaurant available. He finished arranging the blanket and turned to give her a pleased little smile, and she caught him off guard when she practically launched herself into his arms, throwing hers around his neck and kissing him ardently. "I think _you're _wonderful," she added in a soft whisper, and for a moment Branson forgot all about the food he had brought and could only think that they were _alone_. She moved in to kiss him again and it was awhile before he could motivate himself to pull back far enough to say, "You know, that's really not what I brought you here for – although we can do that, too, if you want."

"_Of course _I want to," Sybil laughed. "Honestly, Tom, don't you know me at all?" He chuckled too, and she removed her arms from around his neck and said, "I suppose we _should _eat first, though. I am awfully hungry."

She moved to sit on the blanket and Branson arranged the two pillows against the wall. Sybil leaned back against one and he sat against the other, next to her. Opening the picnic basket, he pulled out two plates and two cups and handed one of each to her.

"Don't get too excited," Branson laughed. "I'm afraid your choices are sandwiches –" he pulled one out of the basket, "or, sandwiches," he grinned, producing another.

Sybil giggled and said, "It's alright. I can't imagine Mrs. Patmore agreeing to make you a four-course meal to take with you to Ripon."

"I was lucky to get two sandwiches out of her," he said, "but I suppose beggars can't be choosers. I _did _buy us this lovely bottle of champagne in the village, though." He uncorked the bottle with a loud pop and poured some into Sybil's cup, then his own. "Sorry I couldn't get any champagne flutes," he said, sounding truly apologetic. "I'm sure it's very gauche to drink champagne out of a cup, but I had to use what I had in my cottage."

Sybil kissed him warmly on the cheek and said, "I'd rather be here with you, drinking champagne out of a cup, than in the finest restaurant in Paris with anyone else in the world," she said sincerely. "I think this is the loveliest meal I can remember having."

Branson sighed. "One day, I'll take you out to a real restaurant and I'll be so proud to have everyone know that you're with _me_," he said wistfully. Sometimes, though, that day felt no closer than it had ever been.

Sybil rubbed his thigh comfortingly and said, "Look on the bright side. If we were at a proper restaurant, we'd have to leave as soon as we're finished. We can stay here as long as we like." She gave him a mischievous little smile that told him maybe she had more than conversation about the weather in mind for after their meal.

"Well, maybe not as long as we like," Branson said, returning her smile, "but we can stay for a while, anyway."

After they had both finished their sandwiches and put their plates away, Sybil curled against Tom's side, draping her arm across his stomach and resting her cheek on his chest.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring any dessert," he said, closing his eyes contently and rubbing his hand up and down her arm languidly. "Mrs. Patmore looked at me like I'd grown two heads when I asked her if she might be able to spare a pie."

Sybil laughed and raised her head off his chest to look him in the eye. "I'll settle for a kiss instead," she said, and he gladly obliged, pushing his fingers into her hair and pulling softly at her lips with his.

After a moment he pulled away and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He could feel Sybil looking at him, no doubt confused, and when he opened one eye to peek at her he almost laughed at her exaggerated pout.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, sounding a bit petulant.

Branson pretended to be surprised. "What do you mean?" he asked innocently. "You asked for a kiss and I gave you one."

Sybil seemed perturbed for a moment but then gave in to this teasing and said, with a touch of playfulness herself, "Did you only have one to spare, then?"

"Certainly not," he replied, lowering his voice. "But then, you only asked for one." He leaned in closer to her, his lips almost brushing hers.

"May I have another?" she whispered, her heart fluttering.

"Yes," he nodded, and kissed her again, but this time he did not stop, and she opened her mouth against his and kissed him hotly, sinking down further against the wall and pulling her with him, until they were almost lying flat on the floor.

When she finally released his face from her hands, her eyes were wide and her breathing shallow, and somehow her eyes looked ever bluer than ever. "Take these off?" she asked softly, gesturing to his waistcoat and shirt, and he sat up to oblige her; in that moment he would've stood up and danced a jig if she had asked him to.

Shrugging off his waistcoat and button-up, he moved to settle back down beside her, but she shook her head and gestured to his undershirt. "That too," she said, and so he pulled it over his head; only then did Sybil seem satisfied to let him settle back down, and he mirrored her position, curling onto his side facing her. For a long moment they simply sat like this, studying each other, before Sybil closed the space between them, pressing her hands against his warm chest and kissing him.

"Tom," she said, pulling away after a moment, "what side of the bed do you sleep on?"

Branson had to laugh at this question, apropos of nothing as it seemed to be, and Sybil loved the sound of it and the way his chest shook and rumbled underneath her hands as he laughed. "You've seen my bed, Sybil," he said, cupping her cheek in his hand. "It's pretty much all _middle._"

Sybil smiled a little and said, "You're right, I'd forgotten about that." Curious to know what had prompted this question, he pushed a stray piece of hair from her face and said, "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was just wondering if this is how we'd sleep when we're married," she said. "Or if maybe I'd be on the other side."

Branson felt very touched and a little aroused by this explanation, and the idea that Sybil had evidently given some thought to being in bed with him, and he consider the prospect for a moment. "You know," he said finally, his voice low and husky, "I've thought a lot about what it'd be like to be in bed with you. But I can't say I ever gave much thought to the sleeping part of it." He broke into a smile at this, hoping that he had not said too much or offended her, but his dear Sybil seemed delighted by this confession and grinned widely herself.

"Well," he said then, "since I have no preference, what side do _you _like? I'm sure your bed's big enough to have a distinct left and right."

"That's the thing, though," said Sybil, lowering her voice and adding an exaggerated note of concern, looking down and tracing little circles on his chest with her fingertip. "You see, I like to sleep in the _middle _of the bed."

"Oh?" Branson asked, cocking an eyebrow at her. "So where does that leave me?"

Sybil furrowed her brow as if she were about to give a very serious proclamation. "I'm afraid I may have to sleep on top of you," she whispered, and Branson felt his pulse pick up and his pants get a little tighter at this declaration.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and said, trying to match her mock-serious tone, "Won't we get awfully hot, all tangled up together like that?"

"Mmm," she agreed, and gave him a little kiss. "Probably so. In that case, I suppose we'll have no choice but to take off all our clothes." A faint smile was playing on her lips but her eyes were dark and lusty.

"I have to say, Sybil," Branson said, pulling her to him and trailing kisses up and down her neck, "if you're lying naked on top of me, I can't see when we're going to get any sleep."

Sybil smiled and closed her eyes, and said coolly, "Oh, I'm sure you don't have to worry about that. I'd be very surprised if we're not both exhausted." She opened her eyes to read his expression and found that it matched her own: amused and aroused all at once.

"I suppose," Branson said, his voice a bit less composed with each sentence they exchanged, "that as a nurse, you'll be sure we're both getting plenty of exercise."

"Oh yes," she purred, running her hand around his back and pulling him closer against her. Then, against his lips, she said so softly that he almost didn't hear it, "_Vigorous_ exercise," sealing this comment with a kiss.

"And what about my poor, murmuring heart?" he asked, with exaggerated self-pity.

"Exercise is good for the heart," Sybil said, keeping her voice at a low whisper. "It makes it stronger. But you know, you really should take some time to build up to it. You don't want to just be thrown into the water to sink or swim."

"Mmm," said Branson, as if considering this comment thoughtful. "That does sound serious. What do you recommend, then? I mean, as a medical professional, of course."

Sybil flashed him a naughty smile before looking down again, focusing her attention on his chest and rubbing her hand up and down his arm. "Well," she said a little shyly, "I'm no expert, but there are a number of things you can do, I think, short of jumping off the deep end."

Finding this line of conversation too serious to continue discussing metaphorically, and moreover unable to think of anything sufficiently witty to say, Branson instead responded by kissing her intently. Sybil paused and pushed at his chest a little, but it was only to allow her enough room to sit up and pull her dress over her head, leaving her in only a diaphanous lacy slip. Settling back down against the blanket, she pulled him with her, and he hovered over her for several minutes, kissing her deeply and unhurriedly. Then, heart pounding, he gathered his courage and pulled away from her, moving his hands to her hips and studying her face carefully, pushing the fabric of her slip up over her waist. He was sure that his heart was beating loudly enough for her to hear, and he could feel his pulse hammering in anticipation. He heard Sybil's breathing quicken, too, and when he looked up to see her face as he pulled her knickers down and past her knees, she looked wonderfully aroused, her chest rising and falling shallowly. He held her gaze for a moment before she gave a small nod, and only then did he bend his head to place a kiss, very softly, on the glistening pink folds between her legs.

Sybil gasped and shuddered, and he repeated the action, this time pushing his tongue inside her just a little; she made a small noise in a response, a cross between a moan and a whimper. Branson felt his heart swell at this new intimacy, realizing the amount of trust in him she was showing by exposing herself so completely to him.

Deciding that he needed a better angle, he reached up and grabbed the pillow beside her and pulled her hips up off the blanket, pushing the pillow underneath her and giving him better access. Sybil squirmed impatiently at this interruption, and Branson returned his attentions to her, trying to remember what he had read about this, as this was new for him, too. Vaguely recalling some injunction to focus on the clitoris, he closed his lips around it gingerly and sucked softly; Sybil cried out and her hips jerked underneath him, so he did it again, and she curled her fingers into his hair in response. Branson was absolutely sure that he had never experienced anything so wonderfully erotic in his entire life, and he felt an intense surge of masculine pride at her reaction, all of his senses on overload, and eventually settled into a steady rhythm of alternating licks and sucks. Eventually, Sybil's grip on his head become so tight that he was forced to reach up and extract her fingers from his hair, lacing his fingers through with hers in exchange. She gripped his hand like a vise, her fingernails biting into the back of his hand, and then she was fumbling for his other hand, pushing it distractedly in the direction of her crotch.

Branson understood her intention immediately, and without ceasing his ministrations, pushed one finger inside her gently. Sybil hissed something that might've been _Yes, _he couldn't be sure, and soon she was trembling against him, and she said "Tom – _TOM –_" with the same tone she used when she thought he was driving too fast, right before he would sling the car into a curve, sending her sliding across the leather seat with an excited squeal. He understood that she was close and so he redoubled his efforts, harder and faster, and when she tensed and arched her back, he pushed a second finger inside her and she cried out, shaking and shuddering all over, and he did not stop licking and sucking at her or stroking her with his fingers until she had gone completely still, her chest heaving, gasping for breath.

Pulling his fingers from her, Branson drew them into his mouth and sucked them dry before he could stop to think whether or not such an action would be uncouth. Sybil looked at him through half-lidded eyes, still momentarily bereft of the powers of speech, and Branson decided then that he had not tasted enough of her, ducking his head again to lap softly at her folds. "_Mmm," _he said, an unconscious hum against her, and despite being delirious and exhausted, the little vibration of it and his soft tongue against her were almost enough to make Sybil ask him to do it all again.

Instead, she reached for him weakly, pulling him up to her face again and nuzzling her face against his bare chest, raining little kisses over it before she found a comfortable spot to rest her cheek and sighed, closing her eyes in blissful contentment. Branson held her tightly against him, marveling over what had just happened, amazed, proud, and for his part, decidedly _awake, _every nerve-ending humming, and with what was perhaps the most intense erection of all his 29 years_._

Sybil, meanwhile, had fallen asleep against him, and Branson had to chuckle when he looked down and saw that a small smile was on her face, even now. He couldn't bring himself to interrupt what looked to be a perfectly peaceful nap, so instead he closed his own eyes and tried to think of other things, with little success; his mind kept insisting on replaying each little moan and gasp and shudder. Finally, after many minutes, Branson decided that they should probably be heading on to Ripon before the afternoon was entirely over, and he shook his sleeping fiancee's shoulder lightly to rouse her.

"Sybil," he said softly, "we should probably get going soon."

"No," she moaned, not opening her eyes, and continued in a sleepy voice, "let's stay here. Forever. We'll eat sandwiches and drink champagne and make love all the time."

"All the time?" Branson laughed.

"Yes," she said, feeling rather giddy and silly, "all the time."

Branson chuckled again and said teasingly, "I'm sure you'll get tired of me sooner or later." In truth, he was fishing a bit for compliments, but if Sybil recognized the ploy she obligingly played along.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, opening her eyes and feeling more awake now. "Haven't you seen yourself?" She sat up and he moved to lean back against the wall, propping one of the pillows behind his back. Thus arranged, Sybil settled back into his lap, straddling him and stroking his chest idly.

"What's so great about me?" he prompted, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Sybil was serious, however, in her response. "Where should I start?" she said, her voice low and seductive. "These eyes –" she traced his eyebrows with her thumbs, holding his gaze steadily, "these lips –" she gave him a soft kiss, "these arms –" she ran her hands from his shoulders down to his elbows, squeezing his biceps along the way, "this vein here –" she ran her finger along a ridge on his forearm, and then, with a devilish grin, placing her hand on the prominent bulge in his pants, whispered playfully, "and - _this_."

Branson was fairly sure that his heart skipped a beat when her hands went to his belt buckle and began unfastening it. Pulling it through his belt loops, she flicked open the button at his waistband and pulled his zipper down, and he obligingly lifted his hips up enough for her to tug his pants and undershorts down far enough to let his cock spring free. This time she felt brave enough to look at it, and he watched her face anxiously as she appraised him, trying to gauge her reaction. Wrapping her hand around it, she studied it carefully, observing how it twitched at her touch, feeling it pulse against her fingers. Finally she looked up at him, wide-eyed, and said very sincerely, "Everyone's always said that they're ugly, but I don't think so. I mean, yours is the only one I've ever seen, but I think it's sort of wonderful."

Branson laughed weakly, and took her face in his hand, kissing her affectionately, touched by her honesty and thrilled that she was not horrified or afraid.

Running her hand up and down his length slowly, Sybil frowned a bit; the moisture that had gathered at the tip didn't seem to be enough to let her hand glide smoothly against him, and she was afraid that too much friction would hurt him and irritate the sensitive skin. She considered her options briefly: she could take him in her mouth, maybe, but she did not feel quite ready for that just yet; she thought about licking her hand, perhaps, but then dismissed that idea as too awkward.

The solution that she settled on could not have come as more of a shock to Branson. Still holding him in her hand, she raised herself up and positioned herself directly over his lap, hovering over him for a moment before letting him just barely brush against her wet folds. Branson held her gaze, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, hardly daring to breathe. She kept her eyes locked on his as she very deliberately slid her sex along the length of him, careful to keep him parallel against her body and not to let him slip inside her. Branson closed his eyes, nearly undone by the sensation as she repeated the motion a few times more, clenching the blanket in his hands tightly and biting his lip, desperately fighting the almost irresistible urge to push inside her wet heat. After a moment, she pulled away, settling back over the neutral territory of his thighs. _That's better_, she thought as she resumed stroking him, punctuating each downward motion with a gentle squeeze.

Branson by this point was like a barrel of gunpowder awaiting a spark, and he let his head fall back against the wall and was groaning helplessly before wrapping his hand around hers and guiding her to move faster. "Oh Christ - _Sybil,_" he hissed, his voice horse and gravely, then went tense and cried out, his hips jerking erratically against her hand as he spilled warmly against her thigh. He collapsed bonelessly against the wall, gasping, and Sybil smiled and curled against his chest, scattering kisses across it and pulling one of his nipples between her lips experimentally, smiling wolfishly when he flinched and inhaled sharply at the action. For a few long moments he was too stunned to say anything, trying to catch his breath, his head swimming and still the sensation fresh on his mind of that little teasing whisper of contact against her, _so close, _just a little push and he would've been _inside her_. When his heart had finally returned to something resembling a normal rhythm, he found enough presence of mind to pull Sybil's face to his, kissing her warmly, feeling like he might actually burst from happiness, disbelieving everything that had just happened. Reaching for her discarded knickers and wiping her thigh clean, Sybil next rubbed the soft satin over him, smiling when she felt him start to harden again at the contact. "My," she whispered against his ear, "you rally quickly, don't you?"

Tom met her eyes then, and his were so earnest and blue and full of emotion that she instantly melted, forgetting her teasing and sobered into quiet reflection for a moment.

"Do you know how much I love you?" she asked after a moment, very softly.

"I think so," he nodded, "but I'll still never tire of hearing you say it."

"Alright then," she said, "I love you, Tom."

"I love you too, Sybil," he said, kissing her, and only when they pulled apart did he remember that he had yet to pull up his trousers. He laughed a little bashfully as he pulled them up again and Sybil giggled, pushing her balled-up knickers into his pocket as he put his belt back on.

"Will you hold onto these for me until we get home?" she said. "I'm afraid they'll need to be washed before I can wear them again."

Branson laughed. "God help me if I forget I've got them – I can just imagine the scandal if I reach into my pocket for the car keys and pull out a pair of women's knickers in front of some poor shopkeeper in Ripon."

Sybil laughed too as they both redressed. "Or worse yet, put them in with your laundry and have one of the maids find them."

"Oh, Lord!" Branson said. "I'd never hear the end of it. Of course, I'd probably be fired before they had much of a chance to harass me about it."

Having put her dress back on, Sybil moved to help Tom button his shirt. "Soon we'll be married, and no one will harass us then," she said.

"I hope so," he answered, but he did not sound entirely sure.

"Maybe we'll have some furniture?" she asked teasingly, not wanting to dampen this perfect day with worries and what ifs.

"I'd say we managed alright without it," he said, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her forehead. "But I suppose a bed would come in handy."

"Do you think we'll have a big bed?" she asked.

"Hmm, I don't know," Branson said, releasing her and moving to pack up their things. "I think I'd prefer a small one."

"Oh? Why?"

"Because that way you'll always be close to me," he smiled.

"On the other hand," she said, "if we have a big bed, we'll have more room to…"

"Maneuver?" he offered, grinning.

She smiled impishly and said, "Precisely."

"Alright, then," Branson said, gathering up their things as they left the cottage, locking the door back behind them. "We'll have a big bed, but you have to promise that you'll sleep close to me anyway."

"I give you my word," she said, with exaggerated gravity, as Branson placed their supplies back in the car.

"I'm serious," Branson said, opening her door for her.

"So am I," Sybil answered softly, looking at him affectionately after he had handed her into the car, impulsively grabbing for his sleeve before he had a chance to shut the door and pulling his face down to hers for one more kiss before they departed.

Branson turned the key in the ignition and backed the car slowly down the driveway and back out onto the road towards Ripon. When he glanced down at his hands on the steering wheel as he drove, a smile spread over his features when he noticed four little crescent-moon shaped indentions under the knuckles on his left hand. _So much for the kissing only rule, _he thought to himself, but his heart was soaring. If this was what it was like to lose an argument to Sybil, he sincerely hoped that he never won one again.

* * *

><p>Author's note: Okay, I know that some people will probably have hated this and think it was terribly anachronistic or whatever. I for one refuse to believe that no one in the early 20th century ever fooled around before marriage or that after marriage they only did it missionary style in the bed with the lights off and through a hole in the sheets or whatever. Sybil and Branson are young and hot and have about six years' worth of sexual tension built up between them. I am not much good at maths, but the way I see it, <em>that<em> could potentially add up to _this_. That's my argument and I'm sticking with it! Cheers!


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Well, this fic has sat without an update for many, many months now, long past the time when I assumed that everyone would've already forgotten about it and/or given up on it. But then, some people on Tumblr mentioned it, said that they were still interested in it, and motivated me enough to update. I hope the huge delay hasn't built people's expectations up to an unreasonable degree; I'm afraid that after all this time this update will be underwhelming. But anyway, enough of my anxieties as a writer. I hope you enjoy this.

* * *

><p>Ten days.<p>

It had been _ten days _since Branson had last seen Sybil, ten days since he had driven her, her mother, and Lady Edith to the train station, forced to tell her goodbye without so much as a peck on the cheek in parting. Sybil had been woefully unable to finagle her way out of her parents' proposed trip to London, and Lady Grantham had been oddly insistent that it was high time Sybil started developing some friendships with _appropriate _men. Sybil had cried when she told him, and he had tried to reassure her, stroking her hair and saying _It's only ten days_, but in truth he had felt much more distraught than he let on.

For Branson, the days had passed in tedium, too dispirited to bother with the usual pleasantries with the rest of the downstairs staff. He kept to himself, wiling away the hours in his cabin reading and writing – or rather, attempting to; concentrating had seldom been so difficult as it was now. He worked on the motors, too, taking the engines apart and putting them back together again; he organized nuts and bolts and cans of oil; he went to the village each day to check for any news from Ireland. But mostly - more than anything - he thought of Sybil.

Restless and lonely though he was, Sybil's position was worse still; Bransoncould withdraw and wallow in his discontent, while Sybil struggled to maintain the futile charade of society life. Edith was sympathetic to Sybil's plight but could do little to ease it, and as such Sybil's ten days passed miserably, under the fog of a heavy dejection and increasingly insistent longing for Tom.

But now, finally, it was time to return to Downton. Stepping down from the train, Sybil broke into a wide grin when she saw Tom, who greeted her mother politely before daring a glance in her direction, returning her smile when Cora's back was turned. Sybil stepped towards him instinctively then, fully prepared to launch herself into his arms, before she was abruptly halted by a tug at her sleeve: Edith, who shot her a warning glance; her excitement at seeing him again had been so overwhelming, she had actually forgotten for a moment that theirs was still a covert affair. She sighed, loudly enough for her mother to notice, who turned to her then and said "Is everything alright, dear?"

"Oh, yes," she said glibly. "I'm just so glad to be home, that's all." She looked purposively at Tom as she said this; he held her gaze for a moment before turning to place some of their luggage in the car. He helped Cora into the vehicle, then stepped towards Sybil and reached for the valise she was holding, closing his hand around hers and saying with a low voice and penetrating look, "I'll take that, milady."

"Thank you," Sybil said softly, but she did not release her hold on the suitcase; instead she let her eyes wander over his face, reacquainting herself with his features, finally letting her gaze linger on his lips. Branson for his part seemed similarly transfixed, and they may have stood staring at each other for many seconds more if Edith had not said, "Oh, for God's sake," rolling her eyes and reaching between them to yank the valise from their hands. "We have to hurry, Sybil, remember?" she said. "Granny's coming for dinner, so we can't be late."

Branson stepped back reluctantly and helped both sisters into the vehicle. Within minutes, they were on the road back to Downton.

* * *

><p>Back at the house, Sybil listened mournfully to the sound of the front door shutting behind them as they entered the grand foyer; she could hear the hum of the motor fade away down the driveway and knew that she was not likely to be able to see Tom again until late that evening when the rest of the house had gone to sleep. Sighing heavily and lingering near the entrance, Edith and Cora were halfway to the stairs when inspiration struck her and she called out after her mother:<p>

"Mama, I've left my gloves in the motor. I'll just run down to the garage to fetch them." It was not a terribly clever ruse, but her desperation to see Tom outweighed her concern that her mother would recognize the artifice in this plan and become suspicious.

"Oh, don't worry about that, dear," Cora said dismissively, barely pausing. "You won't need them for dinner and we can send one of the maids for them later."

"No, really," Sybil insisted, already turning back towards the door. "It will only take a minute. Besides, I'd rather get them now while I'm thinking about it; otherwise I'll forget."

Seeing that Sybil would not be put off, Cora called after her daughter's retreating figure, "Alright, but don't dawdle or you won't have time to change for dinner!"

Sybil barely heard the last part of this sentence, but she scarcely needed to be encouraged to hurry. She ran as fast as she could manage, given that she was wearing a corset, and reached her destination in record time. The sound of her footsteps on the gravel startled Tom from where he was standing at his workbench, having just removed his hat and gloves, and he turned to see Sybil, flushed and panting, holding her side where a cramp had formed.

"Tom," she said, breathlessly, his name a plea and an exclamation of relief all at once, her face hopeful and eager and flushed from exertion. "I can't stay -" she added, her chest rising and falling quickly, "but I wanted to –"

The rest of her sentence was cut off as Tom closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, taking her face in his hands and kissing her desperately. Caught off guard and thrown off balance, Sybil stumbled backwards, falling against the side of the Renault, her palms squeaking against the cool metal door as she reached back to steady herself. His mouth was insistent against hers, and there was a certain hunger in this kiss that she had never seen in him before; she fisted her hands against the material of his jacket for stability, pulling him closer against her.

She had dreamed of kisses like this, rough and needy and without preamble._ Yes, _she thought to herself - this, _this_ was how they would kiss when they were married. Everything would be different then; there would be no need for caution or restraint; they could be completely uninhibited, spontaneous, wanton. Perhaps he would come home from his job at the paper at lunchtime, and when he did he would kiss her like this, and he would rasp _"I only have half an hour"_ – and they would stumble blindly towards the bedroom (or the sofa, or the kitchen); she would ruck her dress up around her hips and he would push into her with a little groan while she kissed at his neck distractedly – messy, hot, open-mouthed kisses; she would fumble at the buttons of his shirt and he would pause for just long enough to pull it off over his head; she would sigh, her nails scraping at his bare back as he thrust into her unstudiedly. Yes, when they were married, it would be like this…

But that future seemed a long way off yet, and until now, she had rarely seen him so impulsive, so unguarded. For the first time, she realized that even in all the reckless, ardent moments they had shared thus far, even in those moments of passion and abandonment, there was still some small part of him that he kept stoically in check; she knew that he did not want to overwhelm her, pressure her, or frighten her with the full force of his ardor, and she loved him for it. Nonetheless, she felt a warm rush between her legs and the color rise to her cheeks, having received this first glimpse of her Tom so unbridled – Tom as he would be when he was finally, at last _her husband_, unafraid to let her see just how powerfully, hopelessly under her spell he was_._ She thrilled inwardly at the rawness of that kiss, reveled in the idea that she had such an effect on him, because she recognized it as the same effect he had on her – that feeling of being half-mad, teetering wildly on the edge between self-control and reckless abandon.

He made a soft little noise against her mouth then, something between a moan and a sigh, and she was relieved to have the support of the car at her back, because suddenly her legs felt very unsteady. Finally, the need for air became too overwhelming to continue, and she wrenched her mouth away from his with a gasp.

For a long moment, all was quiet but the sound of their heavy breathing. Sybil's heart swelled at the look of earnest appraisal in Tom's eyes as he held her face in his hands, saying nothing, only letting his eyes travel across her features, as if he was looking at her for the first time. She felt his gaze sweep from her eyes to her lips and back again, before he dropped his hands and pulled her into a close embrace; with the car behind her and Tom before her, his arms wrapped around her, everything in the world was _Tom, _and nothing else mattered.

"I _missed_ you," he said, very softly, closing his eyes and nuzzling his face against her neck, his lips just grazing the spot below her ear as he spoke; she could not be sure if the contact was purposeful or not, but in any case it made her skin tingle. Not for the first time, Sybil was amazed by the level of meaning he could convey in so few words. It was such a simple phrase, and yet in those three small words she intrinsically felt the acute loneliness he had experienced in her absence, at the same time that a familiar little shiver rushed down her spine at the unmistakable undertone of sexual longing in his tone, his voice a low murmur against her skin, husky and emphatic.

"I missed you, too," she answered, resting her chin on his shoulder and threading her fingers in his hair, holding his head closely against her, breathing in the familiar scent of him. They stood like this for a long moment, before Sybil was finally forced to admit, "I really can't stay."

He pulled back a bit then, nodding his head. "I know," he said. There was a beat, then he added, "Will you come to me? Tonight?"

"Yes," she breathed, closing her eyes and kissing his cheek like she had that night she had left him at that lonely roadside inn. "As soon as I can."

"Alright then," he said, disentangling from her reluctantly. "You'd best be off."

She nodded and turned, walking quickly towards the house, not looking back, every crunch of her footsteps on the gravel seeming to say _Soon. Soon. Soon._

* * *

><p>A soft, quick knock at the door of his cottage roused Branson from where he lay dozing on his small bed. He rose and hurried to it, his fingers fumbling on the lock in his haste, then flung it wide to grant Sybil entrance. She slipped in silently, pausing to wait for him just inside door while he locked and chained it behind them.<p>

"Hello," she said quietly when he turned back to face her.

"Hello," he echoed, his voice low, then leaned in to kiss her, very softly.

"Shall we?" she asked, gesturing towards his bed; he nodded and moved towards it, sitting down before her and stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning his back against the headboard. Sybil followed, moving to lie on her side and curl her body against him, resting her head against his shoulder.

He stroked her hair absently for awhile and they both were quiet, as if simply basking in the feeling of being reunited. "Well?" he said finally, sighing as if reluctant to break the silence. "How was London?"

"Terrible," she said, rather bitterly.

"Really? Why?"

"Yes, really - because you weren't there. And because I had to pretend to be amused by people who aren't funny, and interested in people who aren't interesting, and concerned about things I couldn't care less about."

"I hope you won't mind me saying so," he said teasingly, "but that sounds like a fairly standard night at Downton."

Sybil sighed. "It is," she said. "But just because I'm used to it doesn't make it any easier. In fact, I think it makes it worse - I'm so tired of it all. I know it's what I've been raised for my entire life, but it's not who I am."

"It's a _part_ of who you are," Branson said gently, then added hastily, "I don't mean the putting on airs and all that, but you _are_ a Lady, and you always will be. You can't take that out of you any more than I could take the Irish out of me."

"You're right," she conceded, "but I don't want it to define me. I can't wait to have the chance to just be Sybil Crawley, for once in my life - not _Lady_ Sybil Crawley."

"You mean Sybil _Branson,_" he said, a note of joking in his voice. "That is, unless your plans have changed."

Sybil sat up so she could look him squarely in the eye. "Tom, listen to me," she said, with sobering gravitas. "I _will _be _your _wife, no matter what happens." She was not scolding, but she was clearly in earnest, passionately wanting him to understand. "You put your life on hold for me until I was sure I was ready. And I'm so sorry it took me so long," – he began to protest, but she shook her head and continued, "but I wanted to be sure – not that I loved you, because I knew that for ages – but sure that I could really do it, that I could give everything up to be with you. And you see, I _am _sure now. I have been ever since I told you yes, but this stupid trip to London made it clearer than ever. I don't want that life. I want a life with _you_ - for better or worse."

Tom was grateful for the cover of darkness, because there were tears brimming in his eyes at this declaration of devotion. He collected himself for a moment, then when he felt he had regained his composure, very gingerly pulled her into his lap, circling his arms around her waist and kissing her lightly, first on her cheek, then on her lips.

"I love you," he said.

Sybil nodded. "I know." She leaned in for another kiss, reaching for the hem of his undershirt at the same time; they paused for long enough to let her pull it over his head, and when he reestablished contact with her he rolled them so they both lying on their sides, facing each other. Not breaking eye contact with her as he did so, he tugged gently at the drawstring at the neckline of her nightgown, pulling the bow loose and letting the material fall down off her shoulder, pulling the fabric away from her breast and palming it languidly, circling his thumb idly around her nipple before pinching it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Sybil squirmed restlessly against him, wanting more; he understood, pulling her closer and kissing her with greater urgency, letting his hand travel down her side and back up again, pulling the skirt of her nightgown with it on the return journey. Her legs seemed to fall open of their own volition, and he reached between them; the time apart had seemed so long, he felt almost as dumbfounded now as he had the first time he realized not only that she would _let _him touch her there, but that she _wanted_ him to. He rubbed his finger slowly against the cool silk of her knickers, damp to the touch.

"Oh Tom, please," she breathed, that one little plea sending a powerful jolt through him, making his cock ache harder and more insistently than ever. "Please, don't tease me –"

He did not need to be goaded. Pulling her knickers aside, he pushed two fingers into her, reveling in how warm, hot wet, how _tight _she was; she moaned softly, squeezing his bicep with each punctuated little thrust of his fingers, and he bit at his lower lip and tried to concentrate on her, to listen to each little sigh and gasp and whimper. It was even more wonderful than he remembered, being with her like this, her breath falling softly against his skin, her inner walls clenching against his fingers, her hips rocking lightly against his hand.

He studied her face intently, stroking her slowly; her eyes were closed, a contended smile spreading over her face. "_Oh, yes_," she said, her voice just above a whisper as she kissed distractedly at whatever part of him was closest to her lips, which happened to be the area around his collarbone and Adam's apple, mumbling his name intermittently, encouraging him. She sighed, turning her cheek to rest against his shoulder, and said dreamily, off-handedly, "It feels so much better –" she paused for breath, panting shallowly, then finished, "-when _you _do it."

Branson froze, and within a few seconds the abeyance had pulled Sybil from the marvelous reverie she had fallen into. Branson's heart was thundering, wondering if he had perhaps imagined what she had just said. He knew with absolute certainty that no other man had ever touched her like this, and as such that could only mean –

He swallowed heavily and for a moment he was silent, his mind reeling. "You mean—" he choked, clearing his throat and trying again, "you mean you –" _Oh Christ, maybe he shouldn't actually say it, but he had to know, wanted so, so desperately to hear it. _His voice was low and hoarse with the next words, "you – touch yourself? - Like this?"

"Well," she said, trying to sound confident but faltering and continuing more softly, "yes… sometimes."

"_Jesus Christ_," he breathed, his free hand clenching reflexively into the bedsheets. If he had not been lying down he felt sure his knees would have buckled; the idea – no, not just an idea, the _knowledge _– that had just been presented to him was so arousing, he felt dizzy. _Don't say it, don't say it, _he told himself, but his stupid mouth would not listen to his brain, and he found himself blurting it out anyway, breathlessly, a choked whisper as he began to move his fingers inside her again:

"_-Do you think of me?" _

Sybil made a soft noise - a little sob of pleasure - and he felt her nod against his chest.

"_Fuck_," he hissed, the expletive slipping out unconsciously, and he pulled his hand away from her for just long enough to shove his pajama bottoms and undershorts down off his hips, frantic, delirious. "_Touch me?"_ he rasped, a needy, poignant plea, his accent coming through thick and low – "_Oh God, please –" _and he could've wept with pleasure and relief when she reached her small hand out and closed her fingers slowly, tightly around his length. He gasped and floundered, pulling her onto his upper body, burying his right hand in her hair and kissing her roughly as she stroked him. Her dark hair fell around his face like a curtain, obscuring everything else in the world but her beautiful face; everything in the world was _Sybil _and her bright eyes and swollen lips and her wonderful, soft little hand doing maddening things to him, teasing and caressing and stroking, so good it almost _hurt_.

Sybil was straddling his leg now, and he could feel her warm and wet against his thigh. When he had taken his pants down moments ago, he had had every intention of immediately resuming his previous ministrations on her, but the position they were in now made that impossible at the moment, and moreover he was quickly becoming too mindless to do anything other than gasp and pant, squeezing and kneading her bottom obliviously.

"What about you?" she whispered against his neck. _"-Do you… think of me?"_

He grunted softly and there was a beat before he found his voice again. "_Yes_," he choked, nodding emphatically.

"And you… do this?" she said, her own voice sounding rather hoarse, little more than a low murmur.

"_Yes_," he wheezed again, feeling his balls tighten and nearly whimpering as she shifted against his leg, rubbing herself tentatively against him.

And then, she dragged her leg just a few inches further up his thigh, and her knee brushed softly against his balls, and he jerked reflexively, the muscles in his stomach twitching, and she did it again, deliberately this time, and then, just like that, he was thrusting deliriously into her hand, his throat virtually convulsing with great, choking gasps, and he was shaking and spilling fitfully onto her nightdress and his own stomach.

For a few long minutes, he was unable to form one single coherent thought, nearly deafened by the relentless hammering of his pulse in his ears. When he was finally recovered enough to make heads or tails of the world again, he felt immediately remorseful that he had abandoned himself to his own pleasure without ensuring that Sybil first had an orgasm of her own.

"Sybil-" he said weakly, pulling up his pants and rolling onto his side again, stroking her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers. "I'm sorry –"

She understood without further elaboration what he was trying to say, in that way that she had of seeming to catch his meaning with only the barest exchange of words.

"Hush," she said, kissing him softly and brushing a sweaty lock of hair away from his forehead. "Believe it or not, I think I love doing that to you just as much as I love you doing that to me."

"I'll have to try harder, then," he said lowly, smiling but with a hungry look in his eyes that told her he was quite serious. Then, as if to illustrate the point, he scooted down the bed and pushed her nightdress up around her waist, looking at her questioningly.

"Is this alright?" he asked softly, and she nodded; he hooked a finger into the waistband of her knickers and dragged them down her legs, then looked back at her face again, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he ducked his head and planted a warm, soft kiss high on the inside of her thigh.

She pushed his fingers into his hair and waited patiently for a few moments while he rained kisses everywhere but where she most wanted them, then finally could stand it no longer; she had made him plead (however unintentionally), so she supposed she could be prevailed upon to beg a little, too.

"Tom," she whispered. "Tom." It was an injunction, a command, and he was happy to oblige. Finally, he put his mouth on her – _there_ – and she was so close, so aroused already that a few long, soft sucks were all the push she needed before she was quivering, her mouth falling open involuntarily as she dug her heels hard into the mattress, fisting his hair in her hands and whimpering feebly before she felt the pressure build to that perfect little peak and then, bucking fitfully against his lips, she knew that she was _there_, she was coming, harder than she ever had before, letting out a long, shuddering gasp, holding his face to her so tightly he could barely breathe. He hardly minded; he didn't think he could imagine a better way to go.

When she had finally stopped shaking, he crawled back up her body, kissing her still-exposed breast tenderly along the way. For several long minutes they were both silent, and her breathing went so steady and regular that Tom felt sure she had fallen asleep until, inexplicably, she began to giggle.

"What?" he asked, genuinely bemused. "What's so funny?"

Her giggling had turned into outright laughter, and it took her a moment before she composed herself enough to speak. "It's nothing," she said, smiling warmly, threading her fingers through his and pulling him so that he was lying on top of her, letting his weight press her back into the mattress. "I was just thinking about what it will be like when we're married."

"And that's funny?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her challengingly, still unsure of what she was getting at.

"Well," she explained, "I was just thinking how horribly unproductive we're going to be. At this rate, I'm not sure we'll ever find the drive to leave the house."

"Mmm," he murmured against her skin, kissing her neck lightly. "Don't you mean the bedroom?"

"A house has other rooms, doesn't it?" she teased, and he laughed out loud himself, a deep, throaty laugh, full of joy and a bit of amazement. Never - _never_ in his most absurd, outlandish, improbable fantasies had he dared to imagine that Sybil might actually feel the same kind of consuming, confounding _desire _for him that he felt for her. He nearly shuddered again at the thought.

"So –" he said, wondering if he dared to bring it up again now that they had both regained their senses, more or less. "Do you really…?"

Sybil blushed and looked down, then glanced back up at him rather shyly, peering at him with unintentional coquettishness from beneath her lashes. "It's probably not like you think," she said. "I mean, I've _tried_ – but it's just not the same as when you do it. I don't know, maybe I'm doing it wrong."

"Just the fact that you think of me, like _that _–" he said, pausing for a moment before continuing, shaking his head incredulously, "you don't know what that does to me, Sybil."

"Well," she said, running her hands over his back lightly, "it seemed like you were rather pleased." He laughed, because it was a gross understatement and they both knew it. Then she added, more seriously, "I'm so glad that I can tell you things like. Everyone always tries to make you think that women don't have sexual feelings of their own – or that if they do, it's wrong and something to be ashamed of – and then in the same sentence tell you about men and their 'needs,' and I always wondered why it was alright for them and not for women. I never believed that it wasn't – I mean, that a woman wasn't supposed to feel that way – but I never thought it could be like _this_, that I could just tell my husband straight out how I felt and what I wanted. "

"It's terribly un-English of you," he teased. "But then again, I always knew you were a free spirit." He smoothed her hair away from her face affectionately, smiling rather proudly at her, and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him with a happy sigh.

"When I was training to be a nurse, they told us that there were certain _'indelicate things' _we might hear or see on the night shifts," she continued, "and that we were just to ignore it and pretend not to notice, and not to judge the men because they'd been away from women for so long. They said that _all men do it, _and I'd never really thought about it before, but from then on I always wondered if _you _did—and if you thought about me the way I thought about you."

"I did and I do," he said, slowly and quietly.

"'I do…'" she repeated sleepily. "I rather like the sound of that, don't you?" She smiled, snuggling closer against his side.

"I do," he agreed, and he meant it with everything that he was.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Well, that did even have any semblance of a plot, did it? Oh well. Some chapters are like that. Please, please, please review.<p> 


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